


Not that kind of wolf

by Caritas_Lavellan



Series: Earth Mind [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Chess Metaphors, Dragon sex, Elven Faith, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fade Sex, Introspective Lavellan, Many Worlds, Retrospective Solas, Romance, Slow Burn, Titans (probably)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 171,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was stubborn as well as kind, and loved him beyond reason. Read as a stand-alone from the start, from Chapter <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/14139625">43</a> to skip the re-telling of canon story (Lavellan PoV), or in parallel with other points of view given in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474826/chapters/10171097">Mind Heart</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10448910">Under the Fresco</a>, or, eventually, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7030597/chapters/15997579">Out of the dimness</a>. Wild dreams, lore and slow-burning veilfire, blazing by the end.</p><p>Chapters <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/11178601">01</a>-<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/12435164">26</a>: Haven to Corypheus' defeat /<br/>Chapters <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/12495272">27</a>-<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/14061145">42</a>: Jaws of Hakkon, Descent & Trespasser /<br/>Chapters <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/14139625">43</a>-<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/19337989">64</a>: What Lavellan did next</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Giuoco piano: the gossamer elfroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Giuoco Piano_ is the oldest recorded chess opening, and means "the quiet game". It was called this in order to distinguish it from the more popular gambits and sacrifices common in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. While Solas plays the Immortal Game using the King's Gambit in his in-game match with The Iron Bull, I like to think that his romantic pursuit of Lavellan starts as a more subtle and much quieter affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work and others in this series are the property of Bioware and their brilliant Dragon Age writers, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of this work. I loved their world so much I wanted to write out some of the stories that it told me.

Virla was sleeping, lost in the twilight. She dreamed that she saw him, deep in the forest: the elusive white wolf. She stood in a clearing, far from the campsite, far from her clanmates. She needed to find him. But then he was gone.

****

She woke early as usual. Cassandra slept heavily beside her, stern face softened in repose. The last few weeks were a confused jumble of impressions: shackles and pain in her hand; terrified villagers; shades and demons; Fade-bright rifts; Solas teaching her to close them; waking in Haven and humans standing aside for her; politics of a Chantry she barely understood; a dwarven merchant of stories; a tired spymaster; the Breach. Her memories of life before the Conclave seemed to vanish into nothing, just like the wolf of her dreams.

Virla Lavellan sat up and reached for the tent cloth, opening it just enough to check that no-one else was stirring in the camp. It was not quite dawn: soft silver light brightened the east, not yet turned to gold. She gathered soap, a towel and clothes she had laid out for the new day: underwrappings, leg bindings, robes. The crystal staff could stay in the tent. She wasn't planning to go far.

The camp was halfway up a hill in the Hinterlands, close to a lake where clumps of blood lotus and spindleweed waved gently. She hadn't had a chance to bathe since they had left Haven: it was long past time to clean off the dust and blood and gore. Virla set the usual wards, slipped out of the tunic she slept in, and dropped silently into the water. Her hands flamed with fire, warming the water's chill. A raven flew overhead.

As she washed (face, neck, hair, arms, body, feet), the Mark flickering green against her skin, she wondered anew at her situation. The terror she had felt when she had first woken after the explosion had been replaced by a more familiar shyness. There had been surprising kindness even in the midst of grief and fear. But already her companions looked to her to guide them, thinking her a herald of their prophetess Andraste. She wondered what she had done to deserve that.

She dried herself fast with magic, secured her lower wrappings in place and pulled on her breeches. The sky was red-gold now in the east, and the lake seemed to shimmer with reflected fire. Perching on a conveniently flat rock, she sat by the shore and began to twist the breast bindings tight around her body.

As she pulled the ends of the binding into place, she felt a rippling in the veil and turned to look.

"Solas?"

He had turned away, whether from courtesy or embarrassment she couldn't tell.  _How long had he been there?_

Virla clasped her robe around her and called out, compassion overcoming shyness. "I'm just finished. I'll head back to camp if you want to bathe."

To her surprise, he walked over and knelt beside her, tall and straight-backed. He had filled a leather sling across his chest full of freshly gathered herbs: elfroot, lotus, embrium. It was a soothing reminder of their common ground as healers: the one thing in all of this madness that made sense to her, a familiar duty.

"Maybe later, _da'len_ ," he said, lightly. "Since you are awake, though, perhaps you can assist me. I expect it will work better than if I did this myself with Master Tethras' aid."

"Assist you?"

He grimaced, and showed her his hands. A long red cut ran across his right palm, slowly bleeding. "I saw some gossamer elfroot growing in a crevice halfway up the rock; it took some effort to reach it."

"Gossamer elfroot?" she echoed, taking the normal elfroot he passed her, and folding it efficiently into a fattened square poultice.

"Yes. Are you familiar with it?"

Virla frowned, trying to force her memories to sharpen. "I don't know. I'm finding it hard to remember anything clearly before the explosion."

"It is rare, so it's quite possible you've never come across it, but it is an excellent addition to several healing recipes. I saw it growing yesterday as we made our way here. It's best picked just before the dawn."

Solas held out his hand, palm up, aura pulled flat and taut, letting her place the elfroot against the cut. As she pushed the poultice down, using it to channel the healing spell, his aura bloomed and danced around her hands. The mark flared into life, dazzling them both. It struck her that she was feeling none of the usual static that came with two mages' auras touching. This was more like a river flowing into an ocean: the same but different.

She looked up and found his eyes dark and intent, watching her.

" _Ma serannas,_ _da'len_ ," he said, not breaking her gaze. She felt her cheeks flushing and instinctively closed her eyes: surely she would have remembered if any man had ever looked like that at her before?

It was disturbing. She was just nineteen, and he must be old enough to be her father. Yet that in itself was not so uncommon in Dalish mage matches, since keeping strong magic bloodlines alive was a sacred duty. As the fourth mage in her clan, she was due to be reassigned at the next Arlathvhen. Not for her the freedom to choose who she loved or which clan she would serve. But he wasn't Dalish, was he? Would he understand? She realised that she knew almost nothing of him, and was suddenly conscious of her still-damp hair and her bare feet.

Taking courage, Virla opened her eyes to look down at their hands and the swirling green magic only now dying down.

"Does that feel better?"

When he nodded, she released his hand and gently lifted the poultice. The cut had indeed healed. He flexed his hand.

"Much better."

Then he smiled, and the intent moment was gone as soon as it had come. "Our people have a saying, don't they? The healer has..."

"...the bloodiest hands," she completed, returning his smile.

And they were back on common ground again.

They spent the day helping restore order to the Hinterlands: avoiding the mages and templars; claiming territory; finding food and clothing for the refugees; closing rifts. They found spots for watchtowers and journeyed back to Haven to arrange for their construction.

****

Virla was sleeping, veilfire by lakeside. She was a halla, white in the moonlight, fleet-footed, running: chasing the wolf. Another one joined her: a golden-crowned halla, _Hanal’ghilan_. They chased him together, but then he was gone.

****

She woke in her cabin at Haven, more rested from the soft human bed than she had expected. It was becoming an accustomed pleasure, to have some privacy. Not that she disliked Cassandra: the more she saw of the Seeker the more she respected her. But it was good to have one place where she did not have to look into someone’s eyes and see the Herald of Andraste reflected in them.

There was one other place in Haven where she could find that, but she had been reluctant to visit Solas since the morning by the lake. If there was one thing she knew she was good at, besides healing, it was reading people. And he was clearly interested in her. Did she want to pursue it? She lay in bed, thinking of her options; of the strangeness of the mark; and of the Breach. It felt odd to contemplate a relationship when the world was in such peril. Yet something deep within her had awoken.

It wasn’t just their apparent magical compatibility, compelling though that was.

It wasn’t just loneliness, reaching for the security of a fellow elf: a _hahren_ , a fellow seeker of knowledge.

It wasn’t just that she sensed a great sadness in him, and the healer in her longed to mend it.

No, if she wanted security she would likely be better off responding to the Commander’s shy overtures. A deeply honest man who craved company, purpose and love.

Virla sighed. It was both simpler and more complex than that. Her dream wolf had his eyes.

****

Ironically enough, when she did muster the courage to approach him, the very first thing he did was mention Andraste. It was a test, of course it was. She met his wariness with a light touch, and questioned him patiently as if he were in truth a Dalish Keeper. His stories of the Fade enthralled and intrigued her. She almost confessed to him that her dreams now seemed more vivid than her memories, but couldn’t quite find the words, and the moment passed.

“I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed,” he concluded, looking into the distance.

She felt surprised: why join them at all if he did not plan to see it through?

“Was that in doubt?” she asked, compelling him to look back at her.

“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Virla considered briefly if he actually believed her mark divine. From his tone she presumed he shared her belief in the Creators not the Maker, and so surely this was sarcasm. Something to be healed. Still, he had given his assistance freely, he seemed to know more about the rifts than anyone else, he had kept her alive, and gods only knew she needed all the support she could get right now.

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?” he asked, sadly. Unconvinced.

“However I had to.”

It came out more forcefully than she had meant, and she wondered if she had overplayed her hand. But the dreams of the wolf were still bright in her mind. As Solas’ eyes widened and he thanked her, Virla was flooded with the swift and shocking realisation that she did mean it: that she would abandon Cassandra and Haven and find some other way of sealing the Breach, if the only other alternative was to lose him. How had she fallen for him so hard, so fast?

She scarcely heard what he said next.

****

Before they left some days later to return to the Hinterlands, Solas sought her out to ask a favour. She had visited him to ask more of the Fade and of legends he knew that she had not heard from her clan. He had told her more of herbs such as the gossamer elfroot, even going so far as to pay her a compliment, saying that it had reminded him of her: apparently fragile, deceptively strong. She had blushed and covered her embarrassment by going off with a book of Ferelden lore.

This was the first time he had visited her cabin. He knocked, politely, as she was packing for the journey. She beckoned him in from the snow: _come and sit by my fire, fellow apostate_. Verses of the Chant of Light echoed endlessly around Haven and now in her mind too: _you are the fire at the heart of the world_. _As the moth sees light…_ At times like this a silent prayer to Sylaise would not be amiss.

“As I explored the Fade, I felt the presence of an intriguing artefact in the Hinterlands,” he said, without preamble, and placing a parchment map on her desk. “If you are willing, I would like to locate it. I have marked its location as best I could determine.”

****

When they found the ancient shrine, a fellow Dalish stranger Mihris joining them, Virla found herself wondering again about Ferelden’s history. That book of lore had been useful as more than just a shield for shyness. Above, the sky shone in through the roots of great trees. At the entrance, a huge headless statue carrying the head of a ram or goat. Inside, old Andrastian carvings familiar from the Chantry in Haven, and Fereldan wolves. Skeletons and elven burial jars; death’s heads statues. The massive statue in the place of honour had one large and multiple small death’s heads all perched on an Avvarian bear. It was flanked by wasp-bodied statues clutching a jar as their head. They reminded her somehow of despair demons and she shuddered. And the veilfire, illuminating ancient elven writing. An archaeologist’s dream or nightmare?

“Nicely done. The veilfire may prove useful,” commented Solas, and she suddenly had the strangest sensation of déjà vu. Somehow she knew that veilfire was more than just a tool: it lay at the very heart of the mystery.

  
  



	2. Fork in time and embrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is choice? A fork in chess is a move which attacks two pieces simultaneously and forces the opponent to decide which of them to save and which to sacrifice. How does this compare with the forked branches of an evolutionary tree, or the multiple time paths taken in Thedas? Who created the dark and the salubrious embriums?

Virla was sleeping, covered in red silks. They fluttered around her, tying her down. Dreams of Val Royeaux: chequered mosaics, ripening apples, azure and gold. The summer bazaar held a circle of lions. Red silks were flying for each Creator: there should have been nine, but there were only eight. She found herself spinning a gossamer blanket, the spindle in tune with the mourning bells’ song. Where was her wolf now, shackled or lost?

****

The journey back from Val Royeaux would have been beautiful under normal conditions, but Virla struggled to enjoy it. Varric had ridden beside her much of the way and tried to distract her with fake histories of the villages they passed by and ever taller tales of the Free Marches. She appreciated the effort, and the kindness behind it, but her mind was on the choice she knew she was going to have to make. Mages or templars?

It was mostly a political question: her instincts had been entirely on the side of the mages even before they had been accosted by Grand Enchanter Fiona on their departure from the Orlesian capital.

Solas had also broken his customary silence when they met her. “Leader of the mage rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?” It had confirmed her sense of where his sympathies lay as well.

But Cassandra and Cullen favoured an alliance with the templars, not just on grounds of familiarity with the Order for each of them but also because it would be more reassuring to the people. This was evidently true: as their small group rode through each village, she was aware of the stares, the half-hidden movements and superstitious gestures. Her elven ears and Dalish _vallaslin_ already marked her as different, and the staff she carried gave rise to further fear. Reluctant as she was to admit it, the mask she wore as Herald of Andraste was a necessary protection from the angry mob.

She had questioned Mother Giselle and Cassandra to learn more of the Chant in order to fashion a mask she could bear to wear. And Andraste had said “Magic is made to serve man, not to rule over him.” Allying with the mages would be the first real test of her leadership.

As they rode back into Haven, Solas spurred his horse ahead so as to help her dismount. It was a gallant gesture, and not one she had expected, or indeed needed, despite the mare’s height.

“My lady Herald,” he purred, lifting her from the saddle with two hands lightly grasping her waist, and setting her down gently by the stables, before taking the reins and leading the mare away. She shivered at his touch, yet felt oddly comforted: there was no dark intent in his eyes, just the concern of one friend for another.

And something else, a reminder: _posturing is necessary._ Was she a fool to think it meant – _I will take care of you_ – as well?

****

And now they were riding up Redcliffe Road, seeking an audience with the Grand Enchanter. Passing through an open gatehouse, where they had previously closed a rift, Virla glanced at the small hut on the left. They had found a strange letter in it, perhaps written by two people?

> _The stone calls to me. In my dreams, as I shape it with chisel and hammer, it shapes me in return. My flesh twists, claws and fangs ripping forth. The light in the sky makes it so much louder. The cave in the hills has good strong stone. I can shape it into something to keep me safe, if I hurry._
> 
> _Jenden, if you’re having the dreams, go talk to the templars. The war doesn’t matter. Their job is to help when things are too frightening to deal with alone, and the only reason the templars didn’t find you as a child is because your parents hid you away. If carving helps you, here’s a map to an old cave I stumbled on a few years back. I think it has the stone you like._

They had found the cave – the Ash Warrior’s Refuge – with a rebel spellbinder, some shades, an apostate cache and a dead dwarf miner lying by a vein of pure red lyrium, warm and glowing. They had been right: the blighted lyrium did sing. It was not a song any of them wanted to hear.

****

The meeting with Fiona was almost as disconcerting as the red lyrium: she had no recollection of going to Val Royeaux; and instead had indentured the entire company of rebel mages to some Tevinter magister called Alexius. Virla was horrified: even child mages would be forced to fight for ten years to regain limited freedoms. No Dalish would have committed to such a course of action.

“I understand that you are afraid,” said Solas, when Virla found herself lost for words, “but you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”

“We are losing this war. I needed to save as many of my people as I could,” retorted Fiona. She seemed defeated by events, and the arrival of the Inquisition had sparked no hope in her eyes.

They had nonetheless just started negotiations with the magister when his son Felix interrupted them. It was a feint: he staggered as if ill into Virla’s arms, and left her clutching a scrap of paper. She unfolded it as soon as Alexius was out of sight: _Come to the Chantry. You are in danger._

Virla finished off her drink, and spoke quietly to some of the bystanders, gathering information. She recognised the minstrel from Haven: why had Maryden followed them here? She felt the bard's eyes follow her around the room: a bit creepy. Was she someone's agent? _Enchanters remind that time will not unwind, the dragon’s crooked spine will never straighten into line_ , she sang. They took the opportunity to recruit an alchemist to join the Inquisition, and went back out into the village.

****

Where the Gull and Lantern stank of ale and stale lyrium vapours, and the village of sea air and smoked fish, Redcliffe Chantry was incense and candle wax. Cassandra pushed open the door, expecting a trap, and was greeted by the sight of a mage bashing shades with his staff, outlined against another rift, and the sound of a broad Tevene accent:

“Good! You’re finally here. Now help me close this, would you?” That was straightforward at least.

“Who are you?” asked Virla, once they had closed the rift.

“Getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” His tone seemed angry, but it did not appear to be an anger directed at her.

Dorian explained Alexius had been his mentor. “To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Virla thought it ridiculous, and said as much. “If there was a way to turn back time, the Dalish would have used it long ago.”

“That is fascinating, if true… and almost certainly dangerous,” said Solas, almost tactfully.

Felix arrived, and together he and Dorian explained that Alexius was a member of the Venatori: a Tevinter supremacist cult serving someone called the Elder One; and that he was using time magic to distort reality. Time magic that Dorian had helped develop: now wildly unstable, and unravelling the world.

“They’re obsessed with you,” said Felix to Virla. She made a fist with her left hand, as if by clenching it she could make the mark disappear.

The Tevinter men left: _I’ll be in touch. Felix, try not to get yourself killed. There are worse things than dying, Dorian._

Restless, Virla walked up to the altar and glared up at the stained glass, expecting to see merely another repetition of Andraste. Instead, she saw an elven hero: pointed ears, a key to unlock the chains of the slaves. Shartan. That was… surprising, but not unwelcome.

_Holes in time as well as holes in the sky, and a mad cult obsessed with me. Yet more burdens to carry. But at least I am not a slave. Those poor mages…_

“Cassandra, would you mind if I took a few minutes to pray?”

The older woman looked surprised, then pleased, and walked away with Varric to stand guard by the door. Virla knelt down on a rug emblazoned with the Chantry sun, conscious that Solas had not moved far. He stood by a lit brazier, leaning against the cool stone wall, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Virla looked up at the glass and wondered who to pray to first. If she truly thought this a hopeless cause then perhaps it ought to be Falon’Din? One of the windows showed a flame descending to Andraste from a red-veiled figure marked with a tree, reminiscent of Sylaise and of Mythal. But her eyes went back to Shartan and his key, and she whispered: _Help me free the slaves._

****

Virla was sleeping, several weeks later. The mages were allies, saved from their fate. But deep in the forest, she saw the wolf dying: white fur succumbing to lyrium’s taint. Red vapours encircling, sucking and growing, her feet could not move, there was no-one to help. The forest was burning, the mountains were crumbling, the demons were coming, there was no-one to help. The prison was shrinking, the crimson walls growing, the nightmare was endless, there was no-one to help. She called out for Mythal, she called to Andraste, she called for Cassandra, she cried _Fen’Harel!_

****

She woke to find both Cassandra and Solas kneeling beside her, his hand on her wrist to feel her pulse, the mark flaring wildly. It lit the tent in flashes as if lightning were green. The thunder was surely only in her head. She felt drenched in sweat, and was just grateful the lightning was not red.

“Was it another bad dream, _lethallin?_ ” he asked, softly. Outside, rain lashed the tent.

She swallowed, and tried to speak. She couldn’t remember anything. “Where are we?”

“The Fallow Mire,” snapped Cassandra, yawning widely. “The Avvar barbarians have captured our patrol. When dawn comes we will continue the search. If dawn ever comes in this Maker-forsaken place. I will leave you to it, Solas. Give the Herald whatever she needs to help her sleep. I am going to sleep in the other tent.”

Cassandra left abruptly, and Solas glared at her retreating back. Then he turned to look down at Virla, and his eyes softened. He took his hand away, and offered her a glass of water.

“I do not think our Seeker takes well to having her sleep disturbed. Do not mind her, _lethallin_.”

Virla sat up, and sipped at the water. _The Fallow Mire_. Yes, she remembered it now.

“Would it help to talk about your dreams? You know I am familiar with the Fade.”

She nodded, and took a few more sips. “It was Redcliffe again. Everything dead. I was trapped in prison. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel anything. I was waiting for the lyrium to consume me, or the demons. And there was no hope of salvation.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her sleeve. She felt such a fool. They needed her to be stronger than this. But he was here, and he was listening. It was reassuring.

“When I… when I close my eyes, I can see Cassandra sitting there, her eyes and skin glowing red, reciting the chant, blaming herself for the failure. She said… that after I died, they could not stop the Elder One. He murdered Empress Celene and nothing stopped the army of demons. They said the Maker was dead. Or Fiona, up to the waist in red lyrium, with only a wall to stare at: for weeks, months? Gods, I don’t know. Leliana in the torture chamber, grey, dead inside: only sustained by fury. Glyphs drawn in blood. Even the stone was infected. The journals implied that almost all the people were dead. The whole world suffered. It was real. And when we found you…”

She stopped, staring blankly down at the empty glass. He took it from her unresisting hands and refilled it from the water jar, passing it back before reaching into the pack for an embrium sleeping draught.

“Go on. You need to talk this out.”

"I should have been there to help you."

"You're here now. What happened when you found that other me?"

She gulped. “It was the look on your face when you realised we were alive. As if you had come back from the dead. And you caught on so quickly: _Can you reverse the process? You could return and obviate the events of the last year. It may not be too late…_ ”

“Is that what I said?”

“I think so. I don’t even know what obviate means,” she admitted, with a weak giggle. “You told me that even though you understood what Dorian said, it didn’t stop you from making terrible mistakes. But it wasn’t your fault. I caused it. I chose to go to the mages, not the templars.”

Solas sighed, and tightened his arms around his crossed legs. “It wasn’t your fault. That future is an abomination which never came to pass, because you survived, and you came back. And we will close the Breach, with the help of the mages you have saved from slavery.”

“Maybe you are right.”

“I am right. Now please drink this, _lethallin_. No more dreams tonight. I will watch over you.”

  


  
  
  



	3. White knight, black lotus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Dragon Age we are repeatedly given choices: not just in dialogue but in interpretation of characters and of events. Sometimes it is presented as a black and white choice; at other times we choose from different shades of grey. Is freedom a simple matter of being able to choose, or in having sufficient understanding of the world to make that choice an informed one? Responsibility is not expertise.

When she woke up, he was still there.

He looked peaceful, meditative: cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing steadily. Virla wondered if he had fallen asleep, or could fall asleep, like that. She could hear Cassandra and Varric outside arguing about how to light the fire; rain driving against the tent. It smelled… she didn’t want to think about the smell.

Instead, she lay still and let her eyes trace the sharp lines of his ears, white against dark canvas; the curve of his head; the shoulders broad for an elf; his beautiful long fingers; short dark eyelashes. She tried to remember the colour of his eyes: grey? Blue? It was a rare pleasure to be able to gaze at him without detection. There were too many trained spies and observers around.

A few minutes later, she found herself listening to the familiar clank of Cassandra making breakfast: metal against metal, ladle against pan, clank, clank; clank. Solas opened his eyes and came back into the present. Virla had no time to pretend to have been asleep and simply smiled up at him. She could lose herself in his eyes: grey, at least in this light. For a moment they flared warm and held a reflection of the longing she guessed must be written plain on her face. And something else: sadness?

And then the tent cloth was flung open: Cassandra bearing porridge. Virla worked to suppress the treacherous blush that threatened to rise to her cheeks, and tried to cover it further by sitting upright and running her hands through her hair. By the time Cassandra had filled and passed another metal bowl, rain-streaked but blessedly hot, Solas was as coolly composed as always.

“It is a comfort to have you on our journeys, Seeker.”

“You so rarely call me by my name, Solas. Why is that?”

“Manners, perhaps.”

“Manners have not held you back on other occasions.”

“I say what I believe to be true, even if it gives offence to those who prefer the lie. But there is no lie in what you are. Your position is an honourable one, and well-earned.”

Cassandra gave him a genuine if slightly distracted smile, and took herself off to eat in the other tent with Varric. Perhaps she realised she had interrupted something. They ate for a while in silence, before Virla plucked up courage to continue the conversation.

“You called me _lethallin_ last night.”

“So I did.”

“But I don’t think that was just manners. Nor do I think you forget people’s names.”

“Go on,” he encouraged, smiling slightly.

“I think you have spent so much time in the Fade that it is easier for you to think of people as spirits, in terms of abstract qualities, or roles. You define Cassandra in terms of the faith that gives her abilities, or the role that uses them.”

Solas frowned down at his porridge. “Am I sensing some concern about this approach?”

“Maybe a little,” replied Virla, unabashed. “Is it really appropriate to think of people in terms of their role or duty or essence, when the truth is usually more complex?”

“Perhaps I am respecting the fact that everyone chooses the face they present to the world: their mask, if you like. We all have a face we want to show, and a face we do not.”

“But you said to Cassandra that you say what you believe to be true. Surely wearing a mask would imply hiding the truth?”

It surprised an unexpected laugh from him. “Why did you choose to wear Mythal’s vallaslin?”

“Every clan needs someone to protect them, whether from others or themselves,” said Virla. “I wanted to be that person, to make the decisions that needed to be made, however difficult.”

“That is a good reason as far as it goes, _da’len_. But you were also observant enough to be sent to the Conclave, and are an excellent healer. You could have chosen Dirthamen for the first reason or Sylaise for the second. Or none of them, and worn no mask at all.”

She tried to figure out his point. “Are you saying that I am still a child despite wearing the vallaslin because I lack strength or purity of purpose? That if I were stronger, I would not have nightmares?”

“No, not really. In order to find new areas in the Fade, one must be interesting. The point is not that you have nightmares, but that by enduring them you grow stronger. You train your will to control magic and withstand possession, and your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I.”

“Indomitable focus?”

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating.”

His comment brought heat flushing to her face, pulsing through her body. It seemed she had not been mistaken about his intent or the tender warmth in his eyes. She shivered, not knowing what to say or do in response, and he chuckled.

“Come on. We have a patrol to find, otherwise we will never escape from these swamps.”

****

The day was a long one, but fruitful: they impressed an Avvar warrior by fixing a rift; defeated the self-styled Hand of Korth; rescued their patrol. Cassandra tested the weight of the fallen Avvar’s mighty axe and Solas told tales of Korth the Mountain Father bringing his people to the mountains at the dawn of time. The successes of the day had helped Virla push both the nightmares and her conversations with Solas out of her mind, and finding the soldiers safe made her feel giddy with relief. She found herself asking whether Korth had two hands, and if so, where the other one was.

“My money’s on Sky Watcher,” said Varric. He mimicked the Avvar’s accent: “Lady of the Skies! You can mend the gaps in the air. Maybe you do have a god’s favour.”

Virla laughed loud, then spun around quickly at the warning look on Cassandra’s face.

Sky Watcher walked up the steps towards them. “Your god looks after you, Herald. There lies the brat. His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss, if he cared enough.”

“The Inquisition has a purpose your chief lacks,” responded Virla, forcing herself to sound serious.

“Is this why the Lady of the Skies led me here? To help heal the wounds in her skin? Aye, I’ll join you. Let me make peace with my kin.”

All the way back to Haven, Varric kept making her laugh by calling her the Lady of the Skies. Solas rode on ahead. He had closed the door on her again, and she hardly knew why.

****

Virla was dreaming, ocean waves tumbling. His fingers were stroking her, calling to come. She cried out with pleasure, turning to kiss him; she reached out, desirous, but suddenly his body was twisting away, purple mist in the corners of her vision. A white halla appeared: _watch out!_ The memories flickered and the fault lines clarified; she reached for the power, and called it to arms. A barrage of lightning, a flaming of fire; the demon defeated, she’d come to no harm. She followed the halla to safety.

****

Varric had business to attend to, so they left him in Haven and journeyed up to the Storm Coast with Dorian. Mages were arriving daily from across Ferelden, but it would be another week or two before enough had arrived to help with closing the Breach. Virla had persuaded Cassandra and Cullen that this would give enough time to go north to the Waking Sea and investigate the option of taking up the offer made by the mercenary company. It was quickly settled in their favour. The Chargers departed southwards, their massive Qunari leader at the front. Virla was still thinking over what The Iron Bull had said about being Ben-Hassrath: in her experience spies were slim and silent, not huge and horned.

****

For all his grandstanding, Virla found herself liking Dorian. She preferred him as a companion to either Sera or Vivienne, feeling that he somehow hid a genuine humility behind a mask of pride. But she had not bargained for his constant complaining about the weather and the climate.

“Can we get away from the water? I’m feeling seasick already. The sea and I don’t mix well.”

They were walking by the beach, gathering spindleweed and black lotus. Virla grinned at him and picked her way easily across the driftwood and pebbles. Soft rain soaked her tunic and robes, but after the Fallow Mire it felt fresh, not oppressive. The sea rolled in great waves: undulating, endless, empty.

“Surprising that there are no ships,” said Cassandra. “This time of year there should be plenty.”

“Perhaps if we climb up to that astrarium we may see some,” replied Solas, pointing to the top of the cliffs. Gulls circled high over it, landing to perch on a bleached and twisted tree outlined sharp against the dark clouds.

There was a short pause in the drizzling rain as they climbed the cliff. When they reached the astrarium, Solas and Cassandra sat down in the lee of the tree to chew on smoked fish rations and watch the sea. Virla manipulated the dweomer controls and Dorian stood beside her, shivering.

“What do you know about these astrariums, Dorian?” she asked.

“Pre-Andrastian Tevinter. Not very fashionable even then, I expect. If I remember correctly – which of course I do – the cult that built these wanted to eradicate the Magisterium and reinstate somniari rule. Being elven, you probably call them Dreamers, not somniari. Anyway, I saw some of these astraria when I was camping in the Hinterlands. That’s right. Me. Camping.”

Cassandra snorted, and Dorian gave her a Look. “Still don’t like me, Cassandra? After all this time?”

“Why does it matter? We are different in every possible way.”

“Not every way. There is my family.”

“Your family of slave-owning magisters.”

“Ghastly, isn’t it? Toss it all in the fire and be done with it, that’s what I say.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Very well. There is that.”

Dorian smirked back at her, making a flamboyant bow, then snaked a hand around Virla’s waist to inspect the constellation she was revealing. “Ah, Servani, the Chained Man. Represents Andoral, the Old God of Slaves. You can see this on the golem juggernauts that guard the gates to Minrathous.”

“What is Minrathous like?” asked Virla.

“The glorious centre of the decadent North, all jet black and gold? You should see it some time.”

“The Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf,” commented Solas, dryly. His eyes traced the line of Dorian’s arm around Virla’s waist, and Cassandra gave him a sharp look.

“Ah. Yes, point taken.” Dorian stood back, releasing Virla. “Shall we look for the secret treasure cave?”

****

When they found it, Virla felt as if she had been transported to a time when Orzammar and the Imperium ruled the south. The magic was still strong: ice-blue crystals, steel hexagons, carved dwarven statues. And fascinating ancient weapons: a prismatic greataxe; a dreamweaver’s staff; a bow that whispered of the war that lost the elves the homeland they still held, three centuries after the time of Andraste and Shartan. They had skirted the Dales on their journey to Val Royeaux, and Virla now wondered whether she would live to see them. It would soon be time to return and attempt to close the Breach. The nightmares were easier to resist now, but the thought of failing haunted her.

She needed fresh air. Cassandra followed her, leaving Dorian and Solas inspecting the crystals.

“I had thought you might bring Vivienne rather than Dorian,” said Cassandra. “It is possible he could be what he seems: a Tevinter mage wishing to do better than his countrymen? What if he is not?”

Virla smiled. “Perhaps it is better to have him close at hand where we can keep an eye on him.”

Cassandra shrugged, not disagreeing. “I do not think Solas liked it when he saw Dorian’s arm around you. I was meaning to ask whether you would prefer to share a tent with him rather than me.”

Virla glanced back at the entrance to the cave. “We are… we are not on such terms, Cassandra.”

“You are not? But I thought…” She stopped, flustered, then said, slowly, “Years ago, I knew a young mage named Regalyan. He was unlike any man I had met. He died at the Conclave. What we had was fleeting. And years had passed. Still it saddens me to think he’s gone.”

She turned sad eyes to Virla. “Time is always shorter and more precious than we realise. I see how Solas looks at you, and you at him. If he will not act on it, please consider whether you should. For both your sakes.”

  
  
  



	4. Blood lotus defence, dragon variation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Virla thinks about identity and everyone else thinks about her. 
> 
> The Dragon Variation of the Sicilian Defence is so called because Black's pawn structure looks like the constellation _Draco_. It is played by those who believe that attack is the best form of defence.

It was the night before the planned assault on the Breach. Virla had had no appetite for dinner and hid herself away in her cabin to read. Her companions had other ideas.

Dorian knocked first. “Ah, there you are. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Would you like to come in?”

He carried a book, which he offered to her. “So I take it you're... Dalish? Is that the correct word here?”

She nodded, accepting the gift. _Thedas: Myths and Legends_ , by Ferdinand Genitivi. They sat down on the rug in front of the fire. Dorian brushed the snow off his arms and stretched his hands out to the flames to dry them.

“I hope this won't be an issue between us. I am here to help you with the Venatori, after all.”

“I appreciate your help. And this as well.”

“The book? I bought it from an elven mage from the White Spire. She said it had legends of the Dales she'd enjoyed reading. Once the Breach is closed she is going to travel there to see it for herself, now she's not indentured. When she heard it was a gift for you she wanted to give it to me for free, but I wouldn't let her. Important to show that not all men of Tevinter are monsters, don't you think?”

Virla smiled, and was framing a reply when there was another knock. Without waiting for a response, Sera pushed it open. She brandished a plate of oatcakes in one hand and a flagon in the other.

“Look at you, all serious. I saw you sneaking off without any dinner. So I fixed you some.”

She walked over, thrusting the flagon at Dorian and placing the plate in front of Virla. Each oatcake had a ghoul's face drawn on it in jam.

“Scary face because you're a mage, but you eat it, it's not scary any more.”

Dorian laughed and took one. “Wherever did you get the jam, Sera?”

“Some arse's plum orchard up near Highever. Friends came good. You don't laugh like a Tevinter.” Sera reached into her satchel and drew out a set of glass tumblers. “From the tavern. Washed and all.”

“How is a Tevinter supposed to laugh, exactly?” He filled three glasses. Virla shook her head, but he insisted, muttering: _If I am going to drink this, so are you._

“Cruel and stupid, like…” She cackled, high and long.

“Oh no. You're not allowed to laugh like that until you get your magister license.”

“Knew it! Varric owes me a sovereign.”

Another knock, this time from a mailed fist. Virla turned, ghoul oatcake in hand, and saw Cassandra and Solas standing at the door. It seemed as if everyone was determined to keep her company tonight. She beckoned them to join the group round the fire and bit into the ghoul’s ear. Perhaps she could eat a little, after all. Dorian filled two more glasses from the flagon.

“These are for tomorrow,” said Cassandra, putting a sheaf of plans for the assault on Virla's desk.

“Now, now, Cassandra, we were trying to distract her,” chided Dorian. “I brought her something better to read this evening. Sit down, and no talking about the Breach.”

“Hey, elfy, you better have a gift for Virla. I brought oatcakes.” Sera pushed the plate at them.

Cassandra laughed. “What are these?”

“Plum jam and plum brandy. Because plums.”

Dorian took a sip. “Mmm. Not vintage, but better than I thought. You know, I've never met an elf quite like you, Sera.”

“I don't doubt it. They're all slaves where you're from.”

“Not all of them, but yes... you have a point.”

“You ever talked to one who wasn't?”

“No, but I'm glad I have now.”

“People are people, who knew?”

Solas' eyebrows quirked at that, and he fished in his leather sling, bringing out a perfect blood lotus flower on a long stem.

“As it happens, I did bring a gift for the Herald.” He passed it to Virla; it had the familiar heady scent. She remembered sunrise by a lake; blood on his hand.

Sera cackled again. “Do you know what those things do?”

“Yes, and I also know what they symbolise. One flower will not cause hallucinations. The Herald will remember that we offered one of these to a spirit at Lake Luthias in the Hinterlands. A spirit of valor. I thought it... appropriate for tonight.”

Sera was stifling giggles, Cassandra looked surprised but pleased, and Virla shyly inspected the flower, conscious of everyone’s eyes on her. It was a magnificent specimen: blood red streaked with purple.

“Let me get this straight, Solas,” said Dorian, as it became clear no-one else was going to say anything. “You're an apostate - neither Dalish nor city elf - who lived alone in the woods studying spirits.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“No, no. You're a special and unique snowflake. Live the dream.”

Sera paused halfway to stuffing another oatcake in her mouth, as if a thought had just struck her. “Virla, why did a Dalish clan from the Free Marches send you to the Conclave? Seems weird. I mean, spying, sure, but why you?”

Virla looked up, placing the flower carefully on top of _Thedas: Myths and Legends_ , and sighed. It was hardly how or where she would have chosen to say it, but someone was bound to have asked some time soon.

“I'm the fourth mage in my clan. I've known for a long time that I wouldn't be allowed to stay with them once I came of age. My parents died when I was young, but the clan was kind to me. They did their best to teach me everything I might need to be independent. Reading, healing, lore, magic.”

“Were you to go back to them after the Conclave?” asked Cassandra.

“Yes, but only for a few months until the next Arlathvhen. And then I would be reassigned. Most likely to a clan with a single male Keeper and no other mages, in the hope I would bond with him.”

“See, this is what I don’t get about you elfy elves,” said Sera. “You’re well fit. You could choose… well, you could. All that talk about never submitting to slavery. It’s all just talk, right?”

Virla shrugged. “I doubt it matters now. We fix the Breach, in which case I can stay with the Inquisition for a time and fix the rifts. Or we don’t. Either way, I’ll have an excuse to avoid the Arlathvhen.”

Solas was frowning into his untouched glass of plum brandy, but made no comment. Virla found she was relieved not to have to defend the Dalish from him as well.

Dorian exchanged a knowing look with Cassandra. “It’s not just the Dalish, Sera,” he said, tossing back the rest of the brandy. “I am the scion of House Pavus, a product of generations of careful breeding and the repository of its hopes and dreams. Naturally, I despised it all: the lies, the scheming, the illusions of supremacy.” He yawned expansively. “Goodness, it’s been a long day.”

“The illusions of super-what’s it?” Sera was flicking bits of oatcake into the fire.

“Su-pre-ma-cy. Lording it over people. You know. I rejected their idyllic plan. If they had their way, I’d be married to some unlucky girl from a powerful family. We’d live in luxurious despair, despising each other as I waited to take my father’s place in the Magisterium. The great families of Tevinter don’t have children. They refine traits, weed out the undesirable, and promote the rest. I declined the honour, and thus it’s best I’m far from home. Less of an embarrassment that way, you see.”

Virla saw only too well, and was grateful to him for seeing it too. Her hand crept back toward the blood lotus flower, and she brought it up to her nose. It smelled surprisingly like the plum brandy. Odd. She sniffed at her glass, and caught Solas watching her. His lips twitched, and she set the glass down.

Cassandra and Sera were listening to Dorian as he continued, oblivious. “My mother was chosen for my father because magic runs strongly through her blood. Never mind that they loathed each other. They wanted a son… who could become Archon, to make House Pavus the envy of the Imperium. They got me: a cautionary tale… that you should be careful… what you wish for.” He closed his eyes.

The Seeker nodded. “My family wanted to keep me in a gilded… what in Maker’s name is that noise?”

There was a loud smash, followed by what sounded like an angry swarm of bees, mixed with an even angrier swarm of people. Sera’s eyes lit up, and Cassandra glared at her. “Do you know about this?”

“No. Wait. Yes. Sorry Cassandra!” Sera grinned from one pointed ear to the other. “That’s the other thing blood lotus is good for, capturing bees in jars. I did loads for tomorrow. I may have left some of them in the tavern. I thought I put them safely on a shelf. Maybe I didn’t.”

Cassandra growled. “We are going to fix this… now.”

She left, not quite dragging Sera with her. Solas and Virla were left looking at each other; at Dorian’s slumbering form. Virla picked up the half-full flagon and passed it to Solas to smell.

“Do you think she washed the flagon out before she put the brandy in it?” asked Virla, more tempted to laugh than cry. “Or are they all going to have terrible hallucinations tonight?”

“Did you drink any?”

“A little, but not much.” She inspected the glasses. “Looks like Cassandra and Sera didn’t either.”

“Right.” He grinned, looking years younger. “Let’s get our drunken magus back to his bed while everyone is thinking about bees. And we’ve learned one thing: Dorian’s probably not a trained spy.”

****

No-one knew that she had slept with the lotus flower under her pillow, or that she had bound it under her armour as a reminder to be brave. No-one knew she had dreamed of a white wolf bringing it to her in its teeth or of a swarm of angry bees chasing it away. No-one saw her hands trembling as she walked up to the Breach, because she reminded herself that posturing was necessary. _Indomitable focus_ , she thought, and _They need to believe_.

Virla didn't need to look back to picture Solas' face: determined, strong. He faced the mages, Tyrdda's sceptre high; declaimed: “Focus past the Herald! Let her will draw from you!”

She focused on the magic flaring in her hand, and on the Breach. She felt the waves of magic flowing into her, channelled through her. The power built and built; she raised the mark up high. She told herself it would be just like closing a rift, that Dorian and Solas had each separately calculated that she could survive the increased backlash. She thought: _I am a healer; I can heal this too._

The magic flowed upwards, multiple channels of light, twisting, entwining. It... was... working? O Dirthamen, who conquered fear, _Dirthamen enaste..._

And then it all went white.

****

Yet far too soon the bells of joy were tolling warnings grim: an unmarked horde advanced on Haven's gates. _The Elder One is come_ , they said. _Red lyrium templars._ Dorian swore. Cullen dropped his beer and grabbed his sword. A boy's voice at the gates, _Let me in!_

Two trebuchets that fired, an avalanche of snow. An army lying buried. So much death to save their own, and only future foresight justified such calculus. She saved all those she could, and set them off on narrow paths that Roderick had trod. A summer pilgrimage he hardly meant had come to be their final saving. _What will remain of this?_ she thought.

The dragon, fierce and foul: a skeleton with blackened wings and burning crimson breath. She took one look, cried _Move!_ and _Now!_ Lay winded on the ground. I am alone, I know he comes for me. While Heralds of Andraste might not fear the fire, I am no such thing. _Oh sweet Sylaise!_ What price indomitable focus now? She saw the stars, hoped she might see him one last time. A thread of magic whispered, _I am here._ But how and who? No time to think. The dragon screamed its rage.

He held her high above the flames, twice her height at least. _Corypheus._ A darkspawn Magister of their ancient tales, but far more lucid than such had any right to be. She'd fought his will, endured the pain that pulled her nerves towards the orb he held, felt dragon close behind, and now she dangled from the darkspawn's grasp. _He mourns his gods_? She prayed to hers: _O Falon'Din enaste!_

Corypheus flung her hard away... straight at the loaded trebuchet? _Too neat; 'twas not too far_ , she thought, and heard the god of death and fortune laughing loud. The dragon bared its teeth. A bright flare soared from frozen mountain-side; her people must be out of range.

"I will not suffer even an unknowing rival," Virla heard, and, "You must die." _I will not kneel_ , she thought. Not to humans; not to Tevinter; never to the dark. She kicked the windings, watched the stones fly high; and darted from the storm. She fell straight through the broken smithy roof, prayed still to Falon'Din...

And then it all went black.

  
  
  



	5. Prophet's laurel: promotion to castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Virla thinks about faith, and Solas, and everyone else continues to think about her, and they acquire a castle. A pawn that reaches the eighth and final rank is immediately changed into the player’s choice of a queen, knight, rook (castle) or bishop of the same colour. The vast majority of promotions are to a queen. An underpromotion to a rook is occasionally necessary to avoid a draw by immediate stalemate. Surely it is stretching the analogy too far to consider Solas’ actions in this light?

Virla took a deep breath to control the pain. Her head ached, her back, her hand, and every limb, but she felt... alive?

She opened her eyes, and wondered what she'd expected to see, had she had the time to consider it. Suffocating snow? Dirthamen's wise eyes? A shattered smithy? This looked like a crypt. And not a version in the Fade, unless her dreams had grown yet realer still. She shivered: it was cold. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling. Far above, a hole – a mining shaft? She must have fallen through it, dodged the avalanche. How much luck did that require? _Ma serannas, Falon'Din_.

Alive, awake... alone. _Be brave_ , she thought, and pressed her hand against her chest, thinking of the lotus flower. She had her staff; her pack; there was an exit. She knelt and drank a warming tincture from her pack. Prophet's laurel. Another gift from Solas. For a moment she did drift into memory, clear and fresh: a camp beside the sea, and Solas laying out the herbs to press them dry. Had he escaped? Had they all? She had to find them.

The tunnel twisted round, then dropped six feet. No going back without a scramble. Virla briefly wondered what it meant to dwarves to have a stone sense. This felt like some old mining complex. And then: _Who's there?_ White smoke obscured. Two demons of despair. Oh gods. The usual pain, then more: the Mark flared sharply. A whisper of ancient knowledge filled her mind: _use the Mark like this_. A shimmering Fade-green sphere hung in the air. It killed them. She took a breath. _Keep going_. A dead-end side tunnel. Stalactites. And somehow out.

****

She must have walked for hours. Hard against the freezing wind, the blizzard shooting quivers full of icy arrows. At the first the hope was faint: a single shred of orange in the sky. Or blue. A broken cart. She kept on climbing east towards the dawn. The fir trees blocked her path and scratched her face.

Virla’s mind drifted, soft snow sleep slumber. She could be dreaming, rocked in the dream lands; hear the wolf howling, follow it home. She fought to stay awake: the Fade here would be no less cold, and fraught with demons. Must try to focus. Reciting ancient tales might help.

> In ancient times, the People were ageless and eternal, and instead of dying would enter _uthenera_ and walk the shifting paths beyond the Veil with Falon’Din and his brother Dirthamen. Those elders would learn the secrets of dreams, and some returned to the People with newfound knowledge.

Her hand felt stiff with pain. What she’d called the Mark, Corypheus had called the _Anchor_. And a shimmering spell. New knowledge. And this time Solas had not taught it her: she’d learnt it for herself.

> But we quickened and became mortal. Those of the People who passed walked with Falon’Din into the Beyond and never returned. If they took counsel with Dirthamen on their passage, his wisdom was lost, for it went with them into the Beyond also, and never came to the People.

The Beyond. It comforted her to use the Dalish word: she’d got so used to calling it the Fade since journeying south. Fade-green, Fade-rifts, Fade terrors. Faded glory. Like a past, like memories. The Beyond felt like… future. A hope of something more, of something greater. Or something worse. Virla grimaced, remembering Redcliffe. “If there was a way to turn back time, the Dalish would have used it long ago,” she’d said. Nostalgia on its own was pointless.

She kept on going, now knee-deep in snow. A tripod and a ring of stones. _It’s cold. Nothing._

> Then Fen’Harel caused the gods to be shut away from us, and those who passed no longer had Falon’Din to guide them.

_He who hunts alone._ This part had long confused her. Was it a metaphor? A way for elves to come to terms with death? Were pantheons too complex for most folk, that they must reduce it all to simple fear? Had we ever been immortal? Was even Arlathan once real? Solas thought so.

The questions did not help, not now. The way was steep, above the tree line. The blizzard less intense, the biting colder. The sky was grey. How did that story finish?

> And so we learned to lay our loved ones to rest with an oaken staff, to keep them from faltering along the paths, and a cedar branch, to scatter the ravens named Fear and Deceit who were once servants of Dirthamen, now without a master.

She had been using her staff as a crutch for a while now; no point in wasting energy with magic until she must make fire or freeze. Virla looked back, exhausted. Above the mist shone palest gold on far western horizon. And to the east, and up: a giant moon in shining silver.

> Elgar’nan and Mythal, with the help of the earth and the sun, brought back to life all the wondrous things that the sun had destroyed, and they grew and thrived. And that night, when the sun had gone to sleep, Mythal gathered the glowing earth around his bed, and formed it into a sphere to be placed in the sky, a pale reflection of the sun’s true glory.

Another tripod. Embers? Recent? Glowing earth at last. _Mythal enaste!_ She touched the earth and felt as if she touched the moon.

A few more heavy steps to crest the pass, and she could see down to a valley and a lake. A camp! And Cullen’s blessed voice: _There! It’s her._ Cassandra: _Thank the Maker!_

She sank down in the snow clutching her hand. And as they reached her, thought: _I suppose it does make it easier to decide which one to thank…_

****

“They’ve been at it for hours,” she sighed. The brontos snorting and the fruitless arguments. She’d climbed a mountain just for this? And not one glimpse of Solas, though they’d said _he’s safe_.

“They have that luxury, thanks to you,” soothed Mother Giselle. “The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this Corypheus.”

“Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?”

“We are not sure where we are. Which may be why, despite the numbers he still commands, there is no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead. Or without Haven, we are thought helpless. Or he girds for another attack. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us."

Her mind was still half-sunk in snow. For a moment she saw Haven as lost Arlathan; and this her clan; Corypheus as a Dread Wolf, somewhere stalking the Beyond. A symbol, pulsing fear. Unknowable, unknown… and yet, he had been real. Perhaps the Wolf was too? It was disturbing. The white wolf of her dreams was not the same, she thought.

She focused on the present. “If that… thing… is still out there, we need to move.”

“They are uncertain where. And there are other questions. We saw our defender stand and fall. And now we have seen her return. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained. That is hard to accept, no? What “we” have been called to endure? What “we” perhaps, must come to believe?”

Giselle was kind, but not the Mother, and the miracle had been through blessed fortune, not resurrection. _Falon’Din enaste._ “I escaped the avalanche. Barely, perhaps, but I didn’t die.”

“Of course. And the dead cannot return from across the Veil. But the people know what they saw. Or, perhaps, what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

 _Can we truly know the gods are shut away?_ No, too much effort. Time to change the subject. “You saw Corypheus. What do you think of his claims of assaulting the heavens?”

“Scripture says magisters, Tevinter servants of false Old Gods, entered the Fade to reach the Golden City, seat of the Maker. For their crime, they were cast out as darkspawn. Their hubris is why we suffer Blight, and why the Maker turned from us. If such is the claim of this Corypheus, he is a monster beyond imagining. All mankind continues to suffer for that sin. If even a shred of it is true, all the more reason Andraste would choose someone to rise against him.”

“Corypheus said he found only corruption and emptiness. Nothing golden.”

“If he entered that place, it has changed him without and within. The living are not meant to make that journey. Perhaps these are lies he must tell himself, rather than accept that he earned the scorn of the Maker. I know I could not bear such.”

Virla sighed. Mother Giselle was thoughtful and meant well. Still, it would have been a relief to talk it through with someone who spoke her language. “Mother Giselle, I just don't see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a real, physical threat. We can't match that with hope alone.”

She got up, stiffly, and walked off. But she had already become a symbol, and soon they began to sing.

> Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come.  
>     The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.
> 
> The shepherd’s lost, and his home is far. Keep to the stars, the dawn will come.  
>     The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.
> 
> Bare your blade, and raise it high. Stand your ground, the dawn will come.  
>     The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.

They were standing, kneeling, praying around her. Drinking hope. The tune and words were unfamiliar, but the image of the shepherd, of the guide, of the hope that fled? That made sense. _O Falon’Din, Lethanavir, friend to the dead: guide my feet, calm my soul, lead me to my rest._ And: _I am not lost, and Falon’Din has not abandoned me_ , said Dirthamen. _Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?_

And then, at last, she saw him. Straight ahead, with Tyrdda’s staff. So tall. So hard to read.

They finished singing. He vanished in the gloom. Mother Giselle was speaking in her ear: "An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause."

She muttered: _Shartan died…_ and looked around, unsure. But then, behind her now, a voice she loved.

“A word?” They walked away together.

****

Solas lit the lamp with veilfire, stark contrast to the fires of the camp: pale silver to bright gold.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Her faith is hard won, _lethallin_ , worthy of pride, save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields, the orb he carried, it is ours. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how he survived... and we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn the orb is of our people.”

His voice was confident, his profile outlined sharp and white against the dark, his hands behind his back. But how could he be sure? His obvious pride in her (despite the orb) could give her liberty to ask.

“All right,” she said. “What is it, and how do you know about it?”

“Such things were foci, said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are references in ruins, and faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb _is_ elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”

He had no idea what a relief it was to hear the words “our pantheon”. But what was the heart of human faith? Andraste? But surely she was dead. She shivered. This was, perhaps, survival.

“Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they'll find a way to blame elves.”

“I suspect you are correct. It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.”

A shocking thought: did he think she herself was now the heart in danger? She would have asked, but he continued, a relentless tide of knowledge. “By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits…”

****

She led them from the front, not knowing where else to walk. Sometimes he was there with her, and sometimes not. He wanted them to see that she was leading, and not that he was pulling all the strings. The snow was bathed in sunshine now. Another winter memory struck her, of a dim-lit aravel: wrapped up in a blanket, playing chess. Was she his pawn? When he left her, it seemed likely.

And when he walked beside? She felt she was his Queen. He strode on like a King. They took the castle.

****

They crowned her the Inquisitor. _You are that creature’s rival because of what you did, and we know it._

Yet when she held the huge sword high, she held it as a mage, and not an elf.

It’s what I bring to serve them. _Vir Atish’an._ We need to see beyond our fears and work together.

“Wherever you lead us,” said Cassandra. Virla thought: _My gods, this sword is heavy._

  
  
  



	6. Spindleweed for scholar's mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virla has spent the last few weeks focused on survival. At some point her feelings were bound to catch up with her.
> 
> Different points of view on the kiss in Haven can be found in [Mind Heart, Chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474826/chapters/10171301); and scattered through the first few parts of [Under the Fresco](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10448910). Why scholar's mate? An obvious reference to Virla, or perhaps to Sophiyel if you read Mind Heart. It is a quick checkmate involving the White queen and mage (bishop) targeting the weak square only defended by Black's king. Spindleweed grows best for the sorrowful.

Virla stood shivering on a balcony… _her_ balcony… and looked up at the evening sky. Not a tree in sight. What world was this, that a Dalish girl (unbound, unkissed) commanded such a fort?

Her first view of it had taken what was left of her breath away. Solas had been beside her for all of the last part of the ascent. From this she guessed he knew they were getting near, even though he gave no outward sign. And then she saw it: huge and square and strong, with yellow banners fluttering in the wind; its drawbridge high above a surge of mist. It sat cradled against the Frostback mountain peaks that surrounded it. Unoccupied, defensible.

They’d stood there together for a moment: Virla gazing at the castle, Solas watching her. _Skyhold_ , he’d said. That had been yesterday morning, and they hadn’t spoken since. Somehow he’d been swallowed by the crowds. She worried it was deliberate, a ploy to keep away from her, prevent _the humans_ from seeing _us_ as _elves_. For a moment she had a confused image of Sera dressed as Mother Giselle: all _we_ and _us_ and _them_ and _elfy elves._

When they’d shown her the Inquisitor’s sword, she’d thought: why does a mage need that? Then she saw it had a dragon styled into the grasp, symbol of the power magic held. A heavy weight to bear, and they wanted her to hold it. She also thought: Cassandra, I’m an _elf_. Has Corypheus’ madness infected everyone? At times she thought she was still dreaming. But when she held the sword aloft, even Leliana smiled.

She walked inside and looked down at the bed. Last night, she’d slept without any dreams at all, from pure exhaustion. Tonight? This place must hold a wealth of history; what would it look like from the Fade? But first, she'd go downstairs.

****

Just like the banners, the curtains were yellow: lining the Great Hall, dusty and old. Virla smoothed out one, inspected a sigil with three strands each twisting into the centre, outlined in gold. A chandelier fallen: iron and ancient. Planks from the old roof, fallen from high. Creepers grew up the stone walls and flourished. The stained glass was clean: surprisingly so. She heard voices talking, pushed at a side door. It creaked as it opened and she wandered through. A circular room with a desk in the centre. Papers and candles; flowers and scent. Floors rising above it to peak at the sky. Someone was up there.

“What was this place?” she wondered out loud, and: “So much room for… whatever was here?”

A familiar voice answered, saying: “Inquisitor?”

Thank the Creators: Solas’ voice. He came stepping quickly into the rotunda, as if in this fortress already at home. How did he know so much about everything? So many questions she had to ask.

“I’m interested in what you told me of yourself and your studies,” she responded, seizing the chance to speak with him alone. “If you have time, I’d like to hear more.”

“You continue to surprise me. All right, let us talk… preferably somewhere more interesting than this.”

She felt the world fading, familiar displacement. Fade-stepping sideways, quite a long way?

****

At first they were walking up the steps in Haven, to get their bearings, and then she was standing beside him in the crypt. It reminded her of watching him in the tent in the Fallow Mire: his careful breathing; the tension when their gazes met. He was so beautiful: fey and wary. He explained he'd looked after her before she'd woken, before he knew her name. He’d risked execution as an apostate to help her. She wanted to ask him to be with her for every night: to share his knowledge; trust her with his secrets.

It would take some convincing: what had he to gain? A man who spent his time with spirits; who spent his nights in dreams of distant past? But surely such a life eventually grew lonely, and he had seemed interested in her. She followed him outside.

The snow was falling gently, tickling their cheeks and ears. She wondered what it would be like to brush it from his face. Her heart beat faster as he spoke: there was something in his eyes, his voice, that felt so true, so real. Why did that surprise her?

He looked up at the Breach (the Breach?), so close to Haven (Haven?!). She heard him say:

“I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…”

It all turned dark, as if she’d stepped out of her own consciousness and into someone else’s. Into his? He grabbed her hand, and green light blinded them. The first rift, closed. Then back to Haven. And yet there was no pain at all: not from the Mark, not the usual pain from demons. No warning hallas. Just a frantic heartbeat: _hold me, take me, love me…_

She wondered what on earth was going on.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he continued, gently. “You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

He’d let her in; she knew it. She could feel his longing for her, wild and strong. And something more: an image of a heart aflame, a shattered world re-growing. Healed.

“Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech,” he said, and waited. She scarcely had to talk to draw him in. His heartbeat thundered in her ears, her heart for his…

“I’m aware of the metaphor,” she said, drew closer in. “I’m more interested in “felt”.”

“You change… everything,” he said, a truth illumined in his eyes. _Hold me,_ _take me…_

“Sweet talker,” she said, half-shaking her head to clear it of the heartbeat.

He’d looked away, hands on hips. Did he think she didn’t want him? She reached a hand to touch his jaw, to turn his head to hers, and, on tiptoes, softly pressed a kiss upon his lips.

She’d no experience of this, no frame of reference, nothing. Felt suddenly unsure, and turned away. Was this some kind of figment of the…?

He caught her firmly round the waist, and held her tight against him. That felt real. She heard him clear as veilfire in her mind: _Virlath, have you never kissed a man? It works like this._

It burned her lips; possessive, claiming. She clung to him, off-balance, out of her mind; in his. Images flickered: auroras, sunsets, roses, marble statues, crystals, spirits dancing, lips and curves and hearts and singing. He drew back only to pull her in again for one more kiss, one image of a golden purple flame. _I want you._ She dared to trace a hand against his jaw, even as he pulled away again. _I want you too._ _  
_

This time he stepped just out of reach and shook his head. “We shouldn’t. It isn’t right. Not even here.”

He looked and sounded close to tears. His heartbeat, still too rapid, sounded faintly. Silenced.

She felt bereft. “What do you mean, _even here_?”

“Where did you think we were?”

She looked around, experimented saying: “This isn’t real.” It isn’t? _But it surely should be._

“That’s a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you **wake up**.”

****

Shaking still, she sat up, breathing fast. Still riding heated waves of pleasure, mind awash with pure white light. _That was perfect. Hold me, take me, love me..._ _He called me by my proper name._ It sounded beautiful, archaic: Vir- _lath_. Where had he gone now? And why had it been wrong?

 _I’m in my room,_ she thought, and looked around, perplexed. She didn't remember getting on to the bed, or falling asleep. Could she still be dreaming? And how had Solas been inside her dreams, or she in his? Was she going mad? Could it have been a spirit? She really didn’t think so: she’d met a few, and none had been like that.

She felt restless. A metal tub of water nestled in a corner; a towel and soap beside it. _Thank you, Josephine._ Virla lit a fire rune to warm it up, and started to undress, her fingers shaking.

No, it seemed she was a Dreamer. Or Solas was. It would explain how he could roam the Fade and go so deep inside it. But she was sure she’d walked into _his_ dream as well. Perhaps they both were?

 _He held me, kissed me, loves me? Or am I going mad?_ _My gods, I’m wet. I want him…_

****

It took her several hours to pluck up the courage to go downstairs in search of him. To get to where she’d found him in the dream, she passed by Varric. She thanked him for helping her meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall; reassured him that she’d calmed Cassandra down.

“Did you know Solas was a painter?” he asked. She shook her head, and he continued. “Told me yesterday he’s going to paint a fresco on the walls. Spent half the day in the cellars burning limestone and wood to make the plaster. Josephine’s ecstatic: he’s got her sourcing pigments from Orlais.”

Virla laughed, relieved. Impossible she could have dreamed up that. “I hope it turns out well. What does he plan to paint?”

“Can you imagine Solas doing anything by halves?” said Varric, grinning. “Why don’t you go and ask?”

****

He was standing at the desk, but turned around as she came in. “Sleep well?”

She couldn’t help but blush; found it hard to speak. Footsteps sounded overhead, dared she risk someone overhearing this? Virla told herself again: _be brave_. She’d got used to giving orders in the war room: the politics was just like playing chess; the advisors knew their business. But finding out you were a Dreamer? That Arlathan might just be real? _I was in your mind_ , she thought. _You kissed me in your dreams, and I was real._

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she whispered. “On a number of levels.”

He laughed nervously, his ears tinged pink as well. “I apologise. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered, and I should not have encouraged it.” It sounded like a line he’d memorised by heart.

 _Oh._ Her face flamed further. “Solas, I thought you were interested. If I misread you, I apologise.”

“No,” he said, hastily. “You have no need to apologise. I… it has been a long time, and things have always been… easier for me in the Fade. I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

But you _are_ considering it, she thought, and remembered pure white light and purple flames. Her heart was singing: he does love me, after all. And it had all been real.

She smiled up at him, certain she was right. “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

“I… may be, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

He reminded her of a wild animal: a prideful halla or a wary wolf? Either needed patience.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you. I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now, and if you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.”

She looked up at the plastered wall: the air smelt acrid. “Does it take long to dry? What is it called?”

“It’s called _el’vhen’alas_ : earth of our people. It dries, and then I paint a thin layer over it, _el’sethnu’las_. Then the pigments: you have to lay them fast before it dries. Each panel’s called _sa’vunin_. It will tell your story. _Virlath sa’vunin,_ eight panels around the room.” He gestured to the walls.

Her eyes widened; she recited: “ _Vir sulahn’nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa’vunin_.”

“It did rather come to mind,” he admitted. “I wondered if your clan still knew that song. I am pleased to hear that not all of the old ways are forgotten by the Dalish.”

****

Later that day, she planted spindleweed in the sheltered garden, to help the healers care for those still suffering from the attack on Haven or the mountain trek. Spindleweed grows best for the sorrowful. She thought about the eulogy she'd quoted from: they sang it for those who died. Legend said it was the song the ancient elves sang when entering uthenera. Was Solas trying to tell her she was going to die?

“Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.”

Virla looked up, surprised. Cole sat in front of her, perched on the low wall that round around the garden. She'd encountered him before, at lunchtime, had agreed that he could stay and help, despite Vivienne's evident disapproval. A spirit who had taken human form, so Solas thought.

He spoke again, face half-hidden by the huge-brimmed hat he wore. “You didn't like your name before, but now you do. He likes the song. It makes him think of home.”

  
  
  



	7. Isolation, bitter elfroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small, slight Dalish elf: Virla’s feeling out of her depth and trying not to show it. 
> 
> Interwoven with Chapters 7/8 in [Under the Fresco](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10649457).

Virla walked up to the Inquisitor’s throne: huge and spiked and watching.

“Impressive, is it not?” Josephine had said. “Fit for a leader. Meant to show leadership and the burden of it. It is where the Inquisition will sit in judgement. Where you will sit in judgement.”

And now it was her time to be the judge. She sat down in it, conscious of the eyes upon her: close companions; Orlesian and Fereldan nobles; Leliana’s agents; the surgeon and the merchants and the bards; the kitchen servants; and at the back with Varric, the Champion of Kirkwall, Garrett Hawke.

In most of their eyes, Ser Hawke was everything a Champion should be: tall, human, handsome, male, defender of a City. She was small and slight and Dalish, and the oversized chair only served to emphasise those facts. _Mythal’enaste_ , what would happen if she got it wrong?

They brought Gereon Alexius first, the one who’d helped _the Elder One_ , Corypheus. Still bitter, mourning his son Felix’s death, he gave no adequate defence, instead taunting her: _You’ve won nothing. The people you saved, the acclaim you’ve gathered – you’ll lose it all in the storm to come._

“Render your judgement, Inquisitor,” he sneered. A broken man, who’d broken time, but not a threat. She’d already decided what to do with him. Sera would hate it, but it might bring about some good.

“Your magic was theoretically impossible, Alexius. I could use people like you. Your sentence is to serve, under guard, as a researcher studying all things magical for the Inquisition.”

He shook his head and sighed; the guards took him away. Had he been hoping for a quick and easy death? She thought all of the lives lost in that future Redcliffe: one death would not atone for that.

The crowd parted to allow the next defendant. He swaggered in, an Avvar man in furs and body paint; a horned headdress: Movran the Under. Josephine said they’d found him attacking Skyhold… with a goat. Skywatcher had explained to her that Movran meant sea raven; he was their chief and father of the “Hand of Korth” they’d killed. The Avvar spoke in a surprisingly cultured voice.

“A courtroom? Unnecessary. You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your holdings with goat’s blood. He meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat. Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.”

He chuckled, and those who hid their faces behind fans to whisper of _barbarians and the redhead Dalish elf_ now did so openly. She needed to prove to them she had some wits as well.

“It seems our conflict was accidental, Chief Movran, but it can’t be repeated. I banish you and your clan, with as many weapons as you can carry… to Tevinter.”

The Iron Bull grinned, and Chief Movran laughed again. “My idiot boy got us something after all.”

It had, however briefly, managed to impress the crowd. She watched as Vivienne and Josephine circulated, talking up the Herald of Andraste’s wisdom. More posturing. Across the Hall, Cassandra caught her eye. Time to leave for Crestwood and pursue the real threat.

****

They all sat huddled in a single tent, talking of Corypheus. The other tent lay ripped and useless: they’d been attacked by bandits just before the dawn. Heavy rain outside; the stench of blood within.

Dorian’s leg was bleeding from an arrow wound. Virla knelt beside him, gently feeding magic in to heal it. She rubbed in juice of bitter elfroot for the pain. They’d fought through corpses, wolves and demons to get to this camp. It seemed ironic that the worst injuries had come from humans.

And Cole had turned out to be a surprisingly effective killer: so odd a spirit of compassion would be that. Something else to ask Solas about when they returned. _Spirits are not creatures to take at face value_ , had said Cassandra to her, before telling Cole she would not allow him to threaten innocents. He’d agreed, insisting that she must kill him if he did.

Virla thought about the book she’d brought from Skyhold’s library: _Spirits and Demons_ , by Enchanter Mirdromel, wrapped in cloth against the rain. Incredible, to have so many books, far more than any Dalish clan could boast. She’d turned first to Pride. It said that pride demons were powerful because they resembled mortals, using our best natures against ourselves, turning corruption and ruin to an art. Desire demons were manipulative as well: since leaving Skyhold she’d had to fend off several more in dreams. She’d learnt long since how to detect their tactics, but you had to pay attention all the time.

Whether it was from the Fade rifts, the Anchor-mark, or her longing to be back with Solas, there were more of them around. And more spirits. The latter tended to be shyer, holding back and waiting to approach. That wariness reminded her of Solas too. It was consistent with what he had told her: that a spirit would adapt if confronted with someone who expected to meet a demon. She wondered how this worked with Dreamers: presumably the physical form provided anchor for the spirit. Were mortal spirits more complex? Could they be reduced to _faith_ and _valor_? The book did not consider this.

And nothing in it helped her understand who Solas actually was. From a village to the north, he’d said, but who had trained him in his magic? Had he learned from spirits, from a Dalish clan, apostates, or from watching it in dreams? Why paint a fresco? Every time she saw a mural or a Fade rift, she thought of him. Her head was going round in circles; and thinking of him just made her miss him more.

She wondered what “considerations” he was working through. It seemed unlikely to be mere difference in age or background: he clearly liked to teach. Was he already bound in service to another? Another partner? An agent for Orlais? Some other reason? She'd have to watch him carefully.

Virla sighed and finished binding up the wound, then listened in to Dorian. “Darling Cassandra, Corypheus is from a Tevinter that's been dead and gone a thousand years. Whatever nostalgic vision he's selling, it has little to do with my Tevinter... or his followers frankly.”

“Do you truly believe the Venatori have no idea what Corypheus will do?”

“Some of my current countrymen look at the current state of our nation and despair. They hear how powerful and glorious we once were and think: “That would be better. It has to be.” What they overlook is that Corypheus wasn't here for our downfall. He has no idea that it was unavoidable.”

Cassandra frowned. “Could he be convinced of the truth?”

“You're asking me? I'll wager he believes he is the truth.” Dorian looked across the tent. “Cole, you saw Corypheus when he attacked Haven. What was your... read on him?”

“Fear inside. Blackness like a pool of hate. So much has changed, I need to stop it. Bend it to my will.”

“Did he actually walk into the Black City? Is that true?”

“Betrayal, blurred at the edges, like a faded painting. Too long ago, so much confusion.”

“I'll… take that as a _maybe_.”

“There were people trying to kill me. That makes it harder.”

Was that Cole making a joke? Probably not, thought Virla, but Dorian laughed. “Yes, I see that.”

Grey morning light began to illuminate the tent. They packed their gear and went to meet the Warden.

****

She'd called her silver hart Mi'nan for his sharp eyes. The name had another meaning too: a blade of vengeance. Elvish was a hard language to master: each syllable could change its meaning depending on the context. And reading older texts was even harder: _inan_ might mean a window to the soul, or the place within, as well as eyes. _El’vhen’alas_ was an insult in the cities; she wondered if Solas knew.

The party galloped on. She'd asked Horsemaster Dennet for a mount that wasn't docile, one that could defend himself from threats if fate required it. They were close to Skyhold now. She was exhausted. Blood dripped from her clothes; from Mi'nan's antlers. He'd gored a half-grown druffalo that had tried to charge them; she'd killed corpses and Fade demons all week long, and more today. At least the sun had shone when they'd left Crestwood; the villagers had started to rebuild their shattered lives.

The crystal on her staff was shattered too; she'd need a new one. The watchers on the walls observed the party. She wondered what they saw. A dirty, tired elf; her robes and tunic fraying, soaked in mud? Or their Inquisitor triumphant? She rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Cassandra held out a hand for Mi'nan's reins and said _Go up_.

In the Great Hall, Commander Cullen waited, Josephine beside him; relieved to see her safe return.

"Welcome back, Inquisitor," he said. "Do you have orders?"

"We need to prepare to journey to the Western Approach. Corypheus is fooling the Wardens with a false Calling. It may be how he plans to secure his demon army. I expect it will take some time to get there, as we ought to close the rifts along the way... and avoid the worst of the civil war in Orlais."

"Who are you going to take with you? How soon do you want to leave?"

Virla looked through the open door into the rotunda. He was still there, outlined pale against the wall with its new painting, huge and bright. He'd turned to watch her; she smiled back.

"Cassandra, Cole and Solas. I need a group that can cope with demons. Cole's very effective as a fighter, and Solas and I can take turns to heal. In about a week, I think. We'll go back to Caer Bronach first, secure Ferelden further, then head west. Are there any other urgent things? I can see that Josephine believes I need a bath."

"I've found where the red Templars come from. Therinfal Redoubt. The knights were fed red lyrium until they turned into monsters. Caravans of red lyrium are being smuggled along trade roads. Investigating them could lead to where it's being mined." Josephine coughed behind her hand, and Cullen sighed. "I can tell you more when you've had a chance to rest."

She could feel the Commander's eyes upon her as she walked on by. At some point she might have to make it clear to him that it was not a path that interested her. But not right now. Right now she had to change... and tonight she'd talk to Solas. What would he have painted? Would he have decided?

****

They sat upon a couch in the rotunda. She’d brought him dinner – a tray Cassandra thrust at her and said _you two should talk_. Dorian had gone off with the mages to the tavern, taking Cole and Varric. Leliana was dealing with the double agent. Josephine had laid out her best robes. It felt like everyone around them had conspired to give them both some peace and time together. _Wretched gossips._

Earlier, she’d sat to read reports and watched him paint. The fresco was another language: a beautiful enigma, just like ancient Elvish. And like him. The first _sa’vunin_ showed the Breach and Haven. He’d been working on the second: an orange eye, a silver sword and black-gold wolves. Like the Inquisition symbol but reversed, as if it carried in itself the seeds of its destruction. It felt like a critique. And as he finished, she’d lost her nerve and slipped out of the room, before Cassandra urged her back.

Virla had sipped her ale, dipped her bread in mushroom soup and shyly watched him. It had felt companionable, and she felt courage return. She’d admired the painting, and he had smiled at her. They’d discussed the problem of which lead to follow in Nevarra, tracking down the Venatori based in Hunter Fell. But still he didn’t speak. Had he forgotten all about the kiss? He seemed lost in thought.

She coughed to clear her throat; felt the words come tumbling out. “Solas, would you like to come with me to the Dales? After we have made Ferelden safe, I want to turn my attention to Orlais. The Wardens there are all hearing a false Calling, a bluff from Corypheus. Hawke’s Warden ally wants us to meet him at a Tevinter tower in the Western Approach. It is a long journey, and I…” _can’t bear to be without you? Want you to show me how to keep the demons from my dreams?_

“And you?” he prompted, gently.

“I would welcome your company. I feel… safer… with you around.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. I would be happy to help. When do we leave?”

 _Inquisitor_. Not Virlath, Virla, even _lethallin_. He’d closed the door again. She made some safe replies, then, restless, sad and aching, walked stiffly to the fresco. _El’vhen’alas_ : a dirt elf, not his love. A blank panel lay drying. He told her what he planned to paint for Redcliffe: _two strongholds and a figure on a wheel of time_. She traced her hand where she thought the wheel might be. It felt hot… with magic?

“This part feels hotter,” she murmured, and was startled when he caught her wrist to pull it from the wall. For a brief moment her heart hammered and she somehow knew he had in mind to kiss her; that he fought with his desire. The mark was flaring wildly, and the whole world changed again.

“Don’t touch it, Inquisitor, it’s not ready yet. You’ll get plaster on your robes.”

It was a message. She tried to convey her response within her eyes, met intensity with tenderness. _I understand. You need more time. I love you too._ “I look forward to it,” she said, and smiled.

“Good night, Inquisitor. Sleep well.”

****

Virla was dreaming, waiting and waiting. The wolf was still hiding, scared to come close. Lost in the shadows, it seemed to grow larger; twisting in pain and covered in eyes. But it stayed in the darkness, and Virla remembered a Keeper’s voice saying: _The Dread Wolf can’t take you while I am still here_. She walked in the forest, gathering elfroot; circling sylvans. _My wolf needs to trust me, and so I must wait._

****

She woke alone and sad. If only she could see him once again in dreams. If only he would talk to her. If only bitter elfroot eased a heart in pain as easily as it could numb a wound. _Dareth shiral, Inquisitor._

  
  
  



	8. Rashvine interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interference occurs in chess where a piece is sacrificed to break a line of defence that protects a more valuable opposing piece. Such calculations must be the norm for spymasters and Secret Keepers.

The sun was sinking fast as they rode down from the Frostbacks and into the Dales, two weeks later than the original schedule. The first delay had been triggered by The Iron Bull. His Ben-Hassrath superiors had held out the option of a Qunari alliance, and she’d travelled north to the Storm Coast with him and the Chargers to see what the offer involved. Ships, agents and knowledge, or so Bull’s contact had said. This man Gatt was an elf who followed the Qun, a _viddathari_. He’d called Bull by his Qunari rank: _Hissrad_. It meant Keeper of Illusions, someone assigned to secret work. It also meant liar.

As Bull had watched the dreadnought approach the shore, he’d looked proud. Qunari technology was advanced far beyond anything she’d seen so far in southern Thedas. But Bull was no longer Qunari. When the expected band of Venatori smugglers attacked, Bull had disobeyed his command and chosen to order his company to retreat. It made him Tal-Vashoth, prohibited from the Qun.

There’d been a helmet looted on the way, inscribed with a poem: _Let my enemies see me on the battlefield. Let the dread seep into their bones, knowing the end is nigh, for at this moment I am not a man. I am a force of nature and the bringer of death._ Bull had read it out; she could see he worried it referred to him. Years of training in hiding facial expressions did not hide his fear of turning savage.

The other delay had been to take this party east to Caer Oswin, to track down members of the Order that Cassandra left: the Seekers of Truth. Apparently there was a cult dedicated to their eradication, and the ending of the world, called the Order of Fiery Promise. They’d fought through the cultists, found (and killed) Cassandra’s old apprentice Daniel amidst skulls and severed animal heads. He’d been fed things; a demon had been growing inside him. Virla wondered how that was even possible.

Then they’d had to kill Lord Seeker Lucius. He’d said the Seekers of Truth were the original Inquisition, who had sought to remake the world but instead had made the Chantry, the circles, a never-ending war. He’d said: _I have seen the future. I have created a new Order to replace the old. The world will end so we can start anew – a pure beginning. It is the Maker’s will._ Insane fanatic. He’d given Cassandra a book of secrets, and reading it had shaken her faith in her people, if not the Maker. The book had talked about the Rite of Tranquillity, how it separated mages from their dreams and their emotions, and how the Seekers had always known that it could be reversed, but kept that secret even when abuse became widespread.

“At some point power becomes its own master,” she’d said to Virla, pacing up and down. “We cast aside ideals in favour of expedience and tell ourselves that it is for the people. Will that happen to us, Inquisitor? Will we repeat history?”

“We might. It would be lying to say it’s impossible.”

Cassandra had appreciated her help and her honesty: the truth was valuable even if it provided little comfort. She’d resolved to try to rebuild the Seekers but with fewer secrets.

****

And now at last the history of Virla's people stretched before her: land promised to the elves by Andraste, ages since. The land they'd lost. The land after which the Dalish were named. With Bull and Cassandra’s journeys in her mind, she wondered which of her beliefs would now be challenged.

“It's beautiful,” said Cassandra, riding up with Cole and Solas to join her.

“ _Beneath the red and fading sun, the elven stand was swift undone. ‘Til they were vanquished, all but one: defiant in her fight_ ,” quoted Virla, looking westwards to the sunset on the horizon.

“Is that a Dalish poem?”

“Not one I grew up with. Josephine passed it to me: it was uncovered by one of our Orlesian noble allies. It’s a story of the elves and the knight Ser Brandis. I can read it tonight if you’d like, Cassandra.”

Cassandra smiled. “You may be surprised to know that I have a great fondness for poetry.”

Cole had turned his head to the silent elf beside him. “You are quiet, Solas.”

“Unless I have something to say, yes.”

“No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

“How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with fewer ripples.”

“There is pain though, still within you.”

“And I never said that there was not.” He turned to Virla. “The Dalish remember fragments of fragments, but that is more than most. I would like to hear this poem as well.”

She nodded, biting her lip. Quiet he might be; but when he chose to speak, he sounded like a poet too.

****

They'd all gathered around the campfire, later that evening, listening to her recite the poem, about Ser Brandis, the Silver Helm, one of the leaders of the Second Exalted March against the elves. She hoped it helped the Andrastians around her appreciate the sorrow elves still felt about the past. It ended:

> Elf sword in hand, heart filled with woe,  
>  No one would ever see him go,  
>  But with a solemn prayer, spoke low,  
>  He vanished into night.
> 
> They say he rode on easterly,  
>  The sword he placed beneath a tree.  
>  And there remained, on bended knee,  
>  That grave and mournful knight.

At the end she paused, and when no-one spoke, gently continued: “My people remember the last stand thus: “We are the last elvhen; never again shall we submit.” This poem was sent to us along with a letter from Lord Avery of Montsimmard, written two years ago when he recovered it. His letter concluded: “Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?””

An elven agent, sitting next to Scout Harding, spoke up then. “There are _vallasdahlen_ to the north, your Worship. I think they are the emerald knights' graves. Perhaps the sword still lies buried there?”

“It's possible,” said Virla. “The spirits of the forest might protect it from being robbed by thieves.”

Scout Harding looked worried. “Are these... friendly spirits?”

Virla smiled. It felt familiar: this her clan, soothing frightened children in a forest. “This would be a good setting for ghost stories, wouldn't it? It sounds like we have more to fear from the Freemen deserters and the demons from the Fade rifts. We will deal with them instead tomorrow. For now, only remember that the Dread Wolf cannot take you as long as I'm still here.”

She'd said it without thinking; it was the way her Keeper always finished such tales before they slept. But suddenly she felt afraid: what if posturing were all it was?

Cassandra pointed to the large stone wolf that sat beside their camp. "Why did the elves build these?"

"There are statues of wolves all over this region," agreed Harding. "They seem calm, not threatening."

Virla looked over at the wolf: she'd been struck by that as well. It was different from her clan’s statue of Fen’Harel: larger; realer; less portable. She wondered what Keeper Deshanna would have said.

Then, as self-possessed as any Dalish Keeper, Solas spoke: “In the days of elven Halamshiral, wolf companions walked alongside emerald knights, never leaving the side of their chosen knight. Wolf and elf would fight together, eat together, and when the knights slept, wolves would guard them.”

"It sounds like Ferelden mabari,” said the Requisition Officer; she came from Denerim.

“You seem to know a lot about wolves,” said Cole to Solas.

“I know that they are practical, intelligent creatures, whom small-minded fools think of as terrible beasts.” He reached out and began to coax the fire into greater warmth.

Virla looked at him sharply. “Actually, I agree with you on that.”

“You do?” He kept his attention fixed on the magic flowing into the fire.

“Not all Dalish have a simple view of Fen'Harel. Some see him as a metaphor for death, or time. Or nothingness. Perhaps if we knew his reasons for locking the elven gods away, it would help. Maybe it was the only way to defeat the gods of evil too. Anyway, we're meant to ask that question. It's why he's not one of the Forgotten Ones. Even though he betrayed the gods, he still guards the People.”

Cassandra frowned. "You believe the elven gods were locked away? How can you still pray to them?”

“The Chant says the Maker abandoned the world, but changed his mind when he heard Andraste singing. And there are statues of Maferath and Hessarian in the Chantry. Betrayal and repentance. Perhaps our faiths are not so different. It's about forgiveness for mistakes, and finding balance.”

Cassandra looked thoughtful, but unconvinced; Solas coolly neutral. Neither one responded.

Cole looked puzzled. As the others wandered off, he whispered: “You want to find the white wolf in your dreams, but he is lost and lonely. He wants to guard you, but he can't. I don’t understand.”

Virla smiled sadly at him, and aware of Solas’ knife-sharp ears, whispered back: “There are many wolves, Cole. Perhaps even one for each knight, as Solas said. Or each night-time.”

****

That night she dreamed of moonlight on water; wolves fleeing hunters by learning to fly. She looked in the water and saw a reflection: an owl with a mirror, dark in the sky. She looked to the sky and the mirror was falling; the owl was a hunter, swooping for her. It tore out her heart and ascended to heaven; she dropped to the ground in a pelt of white fur.

****

She’d seen the mirrored owl before, in Crestwood, near the wyvern hole: the servant and messenger of Falon’Din; or, some said, of Andruil. And Skyhold had statues of hunting owls in flight. But here, in the Emerald Graves, they were everywhere: the wolves, the owls, the ancient frescoes telling tales of blight and war and fabulous beasts.

And other statues too: in the ruin where they’d set up camp, there were kneeling hooded figures all around the wall. They'd passed under another mirrored owl to find the rebel leader Fairbanks holed up in Watcher's Reach, another kneeling hooded figure carved above them. It looked elven and Virla wondered which of the gods it represented: Dirthamen, perhaps?

She'd been about to ask Solas if he knew when Cole spoke up instead. “Why are my hands hurting?”

They all inspected them. “Rashvine stings,” said Virla, Solas and Cassandra all together.

They went inside Fairbanks’ complex and found a place to salve Cole’s hands. Solas picked up a book: _The Land of Fog,_ by Brother Ashor Vell. As Virla worked her healing, he read out to them what it said about the island of Seheron and its fog warrior rebels. She remembered Bull’s stories of the four factions caught in perpetual bloody war: Tevinter spies, Tal-Vashoth, Qunari and the fog warriors.

“They say that the griffons of the Grey Wardens came from Seheron. They tell us of the ancient curse of Nahar that brought the fog, and the promise that will one day lift it. They speak of the March of Four Winds, of the lost people who fled to the northern islands and the great heroes who learned at the feet of elves,” he concluded, and she forgot her question in the pleasure of listening to his voice.

****

As they closed Fade rifts and tracked down the Freemen deserters, Virla wondered if it were the rashvine or the Fade rifts that were sickening the animals: none of them looked healthy. They were following Cullen’s advice to gather information left at Red Templar camps. The letters confirmed that the red lyrium wasn’t from the deep roads and implied refugees captured by the rebels were being sent to Emprise du Lion. Virla remembered Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe and felt sick. Were they mining it from _people_? They had to find a way to stop this. _Shartan, help me free the slaves._

A further trail suggested going north to Dirthavaren: a weapon’s location lay hidden in elven glyphs. Various Freemen commanders seemed to be competing to see which of them could locate it first.

"It's always remarkable how some will take advantage of chaos to further their own cause,” commented Solas, looking at the body of Commander Duhaime slain outside a grand Orlesian villa.

In a courtyard inside the mansion they were ambushed by the men of General Maliphant, the leader of the Freemen of the Dales, and then the General himself: a skilled assassin dressed in yellow wearing an Orlesian mask. It was a bloody fight. Virla called lightning and fire that danced and lit the courtyard in purple and red; bright humming magic. Then she felt one, two, three agonizing knife stabs in her back. They burned her back with fire and she fell screaming to the ground.

After a while, Virla felt herself lifted by Cassandra, and carried to a… bedchamber? She had a confused impression of ornate gilding, paintings, dustcovers, papers. Then she was laid face down on a bed.

Virla fought for breath. “It’s… I think… the knife… poisoned… rashvine…” she said, and fainted.

  
  



	9. Poisoned pawn grasps the nettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poisoned pawn is an unprotected pawn which nonetheless is dangerous for the opponent to capture.

On a beach. Pebbles and driftwood spars underfoot. Rolling waves of thick grey fog.

An urgent voice searching: _Tel’enfenim, da’len._ _Irassal ma ghilas. Ma garas mir renan. Ara ma’athlan vhenas. Ara ma’athlan vhenas._

A calmer voice, a woman’s this time, out of the fog. “It’s a Dalish lullaby, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Virla. “An old one. It’s Solas telling me not to worry. He’s calling me home.”

She looked around, surprised. “Where am I? This doesn’t feel like the Fade.”

“A place in between. In between different worlds. You won’t be here long.”

“Who are you? Why is there so much fog?”

“My name is Caritas. I’m here to help. You were half right. Maliphant’s knives were tipped with poison called the Tears of the Dead. Not rashvine itself, but rashvine nettles. And blood lotus and deathroot.”

“Blood lotus… am I hallucinating?”

“It may help to think of it like that. Don’t worry; you’ll recover. He’ll find you soon. You are on a difficult path, Virla. If you need me, go alone into the Fade and call my name.”

****

“Virlath? Follow my voice. _Ma garas mir renan_.”

His voice did sound closer now. She felt herself falling back from the Fade, or wherever it had been, and hard on to a bed. Everything hurt: her head, her neck, her back. She tried to open her eyes. They hurt too. A pale green fog obscured her vision: healing mist. She was lying on her front. Warm hands caressed her skin, pulsing soothing magic through her body. They stroked her back, her neck, along the exposed sides of her breasts, pushing away the pain and the fear. She felt herself drifting away again.

****

Virla was dreaming, waking from slumber to a sunlit bedchamber, golden and warm. Heavy gold curtains hung over the bedside; a fire blazed brightly. Dressed in green velvet, Orlesian-fashion, Virla sat up in bed. Across the chamber, Solas was staring out of the window, not looking at her.

“Inquisitor.” His voice was taut, controlled.

“Solas,” she breathed, relieved. The pain wasn’t so bad, here.

“I am glad to see you still live.”

He sounded almost angry. Virla pushed aside the counterpane, climbed off the bed, and walked over to the window, dark green skirts trailing over marble tiles. She flexed her right hand in front of him.

“It wasn’t rashvine, was it? The first symptom would be calcification, and I’m not turning to stone.”

“No. It was a poison, but not rashvine. Though poison is bad enough.” He turned to face her and sighed. “You must be more careful, Inquisitor. We cannot defeat Corypheus without you.”

“I survived Haven, did I not?” She mirrored his normal pose, hands behind her back.

He frowned, tight-lipped. “You cannot rely on good fortune. What would have happened if I had not been here to heal you? I cannot always be around to protect you, _da’len_.”

“I wish you could be,” she whispered, feeling tears coming to her eyes. Why was he so angry?

He stared down at her, silent. She remembered Cole: _He wants to guard you, but he can’t_. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted a hand to her face, and gently traced the branching emerald lines of vallaslin along her cheekbone. A flash of anguish lit his eyes; he let his hand fall again. He walked over to the fireplace, and paced up and down beside it. She stood by the window, breathing fast, watching the sunlight play on the leaves. A butterfly, a moth.

If she listened, she could hear it, fast and faint, a rhythm from a heart: _soft, not stone; soft, not stone…_

She’d never worn such a beautiful dress: velvet sleeves, silken straps around her neck, low-cut and tight and long. She must have pulled it while half-conscious from the Fade, from a memory of Madame Vivienne, from the owner of this villa. It radiated softness and unbearable desire. With a thought, she turned it to her usual robes. Too cruel to tempt him when it clearly hurt so much.

After a few minutes, as if nothing had ever happened between them, as if it were easy to suppress a heartbeat, as if he were explaining a lesson to a child, he broke his silence. “You shamed Corypheus when you destroyed Haven. It spoiled his glorious victory. It would be worse to acknowledge that you had done so. He must continue on his course or show weakness. Corypheus will return to his plans to throw Orlais into chaos and then conquer it for Tevinter.”

“And we are doing what we can to prevent him. We will disrupt his activities in Orlais: disrupt the red lyrium… production… protect the Empress… track down the Wardens…”

Her voice trailed off. She stared blindly out of the window, trembling. “ _Ir abelas, hahren_ ,” she whispered, turning to face him. “I will try to do better.”

He walked across, not too close, and looked down at her, still sombre. “I am not your Keeper, Inquisitor. You need to lead us. It is your Inquisition, your fight. What are we going to do next?”

Virla fought for control of herself, and succeeded. It was true: they needed her to close the rifts; to inspire everyone to work together; be a symbol of hope. An emerald knight.

And, apparently, to keep Solas calm as well. _He’s angry because he’s scared; he thought he’d lost you._

She thought over his words. “Throw Orlais into chaos… you’re sure that’s what he’ll do?”

“As certain as is possible, assuming I can plausibly predict a man who seeks to rise to godhood.”

“And can you?”

“The key is understanding this: no real god need prove himself. Anyone who tries is mad or lying. His deception will undo him, as it has done countless fools before. But right now, he threatens Orlais.”

She nodded. “It’s your fight too, Solas, as long as you’re with me. Thank you for healing me. We will send our information to Cullen. While we wait for his response, we will go north to Dirthavaren.”

****

She’d woken, stiff and sore but whole, naked to the waist, covered by a golden counterpane stained with blood. On the floor had lain the robes she’d worn, ripped and torn and bloody; bindings severed cleanly torn along an edge of frost. She’d shivered, remembering lullabies and soft warm hands, and his anguished look. How could something that felt so wonderfully right be to him so wrong?

“I’ve never seen him look distraught like that,” had said Cassandra, and they’d left it there.

Cassandra had found spare clothes in her pack, and while she dressed, explained that Cole and Solas had ridden north to the camp to despatch letters to Cullen. She didn’t say whether Solas had told her that they’d spoken in the Fade; she might not know it were possible. Virla found herself wondering what it must be like for Cassandra: knowing the Fade existed but not remembering dreams.

On their way to Dirthavaren, the place the humans called the Exalted Plains, they’d ridden north and seen the _vallasdahlen_ , trees planted to commemorate the Emerald Knights: old and huge and tall.

“I like trees,” Cole had said, as they passed by. “Trees don’t hurt people.”

They’d passed through the elven ruins of Elgar’nan’s Bastion. “My people built a life here,” said Solas, speaking for the first time since the Fade. “It must have been something to see.”

“My ancestors hunted dragons here, ages ago,” said Cassandra. “Hard to picture what it was like then.”

They’d come across a Dalish First, Taven, outside Din’an Hanin. It was the resting place of the emerald knights; he was planning to search for a tomb, sealed since the Second Age. _The Glory Age,_ to humans.

Virla stayed silent, not thinking of trees or knights or swords as they rode on, but of two conversations. The first was Solas talking in the Fade: of gods, protection, prediction, luck and knowledge.

The second: between Cole and Solas, after they had found another astrarium. It showed Solium. She’d packed in Mi’nan’s saddlebags a small tome on astronomy (Sister Oran Petrarchius). It said: _the proper depiction of Solium is as both the Sun and Moon… it originally represented Elgar’nan, the Eldest of the Sun_. She was thinking about this duality, wondering what it could mean, when Cole spoke.

“You’re sharper, Solas. You’re in two places.”

“I visit the Fade regularly. Perhaps you are sensing traces of it. You are a spirit who crossed the Veil and took human form.”

“Spirit or demon,” said Cole, sounding sad.

“The two are not so dissimilar, Cole. While the world may exert a pull in one direction or another, the choice is ultimately yours.”

_How could he be in two places? How did he know so much? Why was it wrong to want her?_

****

They found the first of the elven veilfire glyphs south of the Path of Flame in Dirthavaren, just after they’d closed a Fade rift. It was by the blocked-up entrance to a silver mine, closed before the civil war.

“This is part of a larger set,” said Solas, reminding them of the notes found in the Orlesian villa.

Virla inspected it. “It looks like Dirthamen, the elven god of secrets, on the back of a large crow.”

They followed a trail southwards through the woods to a river and found a second glyph in an old shrine dedicated to Sylaise, near a waterfall. It showed a hawk and a hare chasing the sun. A dropped note written by Duhaime directed his troops to search ancient baths and a ruin in Enavuris. Behind a magical barrier, Virla found ancient elven robes, a talisman of Lindiranae, and a magic ring.

She passed the ring to Solas for inspection. Surprisingly, he chuckled. “Is this…? Ah yes, I think it is.”

He slipped it on, and vanished. Virla blinked, then jumped as his voice whispered in her ear.

“It's a Ring of Doubt from an old Tevinter tale, enchanted with the power of invisibility. Do you want to try it?”

With Cassandra and Cole outside the shrine it felt like she were talking to herself. “If it’s safe to do so.”

He laughed, and began to re-appear, starting with a grin. “All magic is dangerous. This ring could be useful. I should say that it was once a wedding ring. The mage who made it planned to use it to escape from being forced to marry a woman he didn’t want to. But his hands were too large to ever take it off, so he remained forever invisible, tripping people up to prove his own existence.”

She smiled and held her hand out for the ring; he laid it on the gently glowing Anchor. “And now I know that’s just a story. Anyone with a grain of sense would have cut his finger off instead.”

They both looked at her hand, and Solas frowned. “Not everyone’s as brave as you, Inquisitor.”

****

She’d slipped the ring into her pouch: too confusing for the others if she wore it all the time. They rode south along the river to an ancient elven graveyard. _Var Bellanaris_ : our eternity. Better left alone.

West across the plains, a halla herd was scattered, fleeing wolves and demons. As they cleared the predators, Virla thought she caught a glimpse of a golden halla. _Hanal’ghilan_ , she breathed. _Surely not._ She looked again, and it was gone.

It didn’t take them long to find the ancient baths. Some Freemen were there too, soon defeated; and a Fade rift. They seemed to form more easily in ancient ruins, which made sense: the Veil was thin wherever there’d been history or deaths. The ruins lay beside the river: red-backed crows flew around a jetty; boats were moored. Virla found an old mosaic piece and a golden horn. Both intrigued her: she’d been finding mosaic pieces scattered all across the south. The horn was heavy too.

“Seems like a lot of people would be looking for this,” she said, strapping the horn to Mi’nan’s flanks.

The glyph was inscribed upon an inner wall: it showed a pair of hands cupped around the moon. A third quarter of a roundel; the veilfire waxed and waned as she traced it. Were these Mythal’s hands?

They exited the baths, and she saw, north-east, the familiar sight of aravels. The Dalish camp that their scouts had mentioned. Her heart beat faster: a home away from home, and yet still home.

“They keep coming back, searching, seeking, sad. But home is gone,” said Cole, echoing her feelings.

The Keeper here was civil, even pleased to see her. _Andaran atish’an, my sister._ _It is good to see another of the People. Still beautiful, isn’t it? Even with the scars left by the shemlen war…_

But it wasn’t home here either, and they would journey on.

****

The final glyph was further north, in Enavuris. It showed two ravens. One gripped a heart in its talons, the other held a mirror. Virla remembered owls in dreams, but kept quiet; spoke as the Inquisitor.

“That looks like all of them. I’ll see what the researchers at Skyhold make of this.”

  
  
  



	10. Deep blue mushrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep Blue was the first computer system to defeat a reigning chess world champion under standard match conditions. Deep mushrooms are fungi found underground in close proximity to lyrium veins; they should only be handled by experienced herbalists due to the likelihood that they carry darkspawn corruption. Is Solas caught between the devil and the deep blue sea when it comes to Virla?

Sahrnia’s unseasonal winter palette sparkled in stark contrast to the soft greens and greys of the southern Dales. Huge crystals of red lyrium sprouted out of thick white snow, veined with gold and silver respectively; ice-blue stalactites hung from frosted trees and the remains of ancient highways. The freeze had been rapid; its cause still a mystery.

The architecture was also strange: a mixture of Orlesian, Tevinter and elven masonry. Virla stood on the frozen Elfsblood River and stared up at an immense pair of statues adorning the pillars of what might have once been the Imperial Highway. One was an armoured knight, the other a bare-breasted woman, horned and wreathed in snakes. Festooned with icicles, they stood on mounds of skulls.

She shivered, and not just from the cold. Sahrnia Quarry, with its famous azure granite, had been owned by the Poulin family before financial troubles led to its sale to the Red Templars. Workers had been disappearing, and Virla was only too aware from Redcliffe what their likely fate might be.

“These red lyrium growths are… warm,” said Virla, as they fought southwards.

“It’s very angry,” said Cole, sounding worried. “It sings… sick music. Don’t listen!”

“Quite a chill in the air,” said Solas, and Virla wondered whether the Earth were somehow using winter to fight back against the red corruption. Or did the lyrium itself draw all the warmth away?

They skirted around the base of a tall square tower reaching to the sky; came across a prison wagon. The smell was vile. Virla forced herself to look in through the bars. What if someone were in there?

“There’s a corpse in this lyrium,” she said, shuddering.

Solas looked as well. “Interesting. The Red Templars sped its creation by “growing” it from the dead.”

His calmness only served to fan her anger. “Cullen will want to know about this.”

****

A few days later they were riding north again, this time to the coast. They had broken the Templars’ mining operations and rescued the people of Sahrnia, but Virla’s righteous fury had not yet abated. _We freed seven wagon loads_ , she thought. _How many died before we got there?_

They’d sent to Skyhold information they’d gleaned around the quarry, including letters from a man named Samson, Corypheus’ general. These talked of sowing red lyrium and of red lyrium armour that would make Samson invincible. Cullen’s response had been swift if brief. He’d known Samson; had even shared quarters with him when he’d lived in Kirkwall. Samson had been a templar before a chronic lyrium addiction saw him cast out. Virla had read out Cullen’s letter to Cassandra and Solas.

“He says: “We should speak at your earliest convenience, Inquisitor. My duties usually keep me here, but for Samson I’ll make an exception. This is monstrous. We’ve traced the supplies used by Maddox, a Tranquil who maintains Samson’s red lyrium armour, in the hope that Dagna can find some weakness. Her glee over the discoveries so far is disconcerting, but she needs more information. We have a location in northern Orlais: the Shrine of Dumat. I’m taking personal command of a squadron.””

“What about Suledin Keep?” had asked Cassandra. “Wouldn’t it be safer to take the Templar base?”

“We’ll need to return here later,” said Virla. “The troops stationed in our camps will protect the villagers. I think Cullen’s right: Samson’s our best lead right now on what Corypheus is planning.”

Solas had agreed. “Perhaps after that we should head west, Inquisitor, to investigate the Wardens?”

An even longer journey round, but the voyage across the Waking Sea would be a welcome break from riding. But as they approached the rendezvous in Jader, the only ship in sight was flying pirate colours.

"I expected more merchant ships," said Solas. "Recent events must have put a hold on trading."

"Is that... Varric... on that ship?" said Cassandra. "Maker's breath, who is that woman in the hat?"

And Virla wished that Dorian was there (despite his hatred for the sea) to see Cassandra's face.

****

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan was trying to make polite conversation, largely unaided by any of her companions. Cullen was too embarrassed; Solas had retreated behind a book; Cole had simply vanished. The sounds of Cassandra arguing with Varric drifted into the cabin from the deck: _the crew of the ship Josephine arranged were attacked by the House of Repose / but that still doesn't mean the Herald of Andraste should travel on a pirate ship! Varric, are you insane?_

“What were you before you were a pirate, Admiral Isabela?”

“I had a husband. He didn't beat me, that's about the best I can say about it.”

“So you left him?” Virla sipped at her glass of port; watched the Admiral drain another.

“He was murdered. By my lover. It was all very... Antivan.”

 _Oh_. “Our ambassador Josephine has told me of the beauties of Antiva City.”

“They're overpriced, I assure you. You're rather attractive yourself, Lavellan. You elves have such pretty eyes, even the men. It makes me want to pluck them out and wear them as a necklace.”

Solas looked up from his book, his tone icy. “I don't think you'd be wise to make the attempt.”

Isabela leaned across to him, fingering her golden necklace. “You're very lanky, for an elf. I like lanky.”

Cullen coughed. “From what I remember from my Kirkwall days, you like a lot of things.”

“Nonsense. But when I see something I like, I go after it. Men. Women. Elves. A dwarf in drag once, but I don't recommend that.” She smirked and tossed her hair at Virla, who felt heat rising to her cheeks. “Oh, Inquisitor Lavellan, you're blushing! Why? How many lovers have you had?”

“For goodness' sake...” she heard Solas mutter, as she reddened further.

“I... I never...” she managed, as Varric entered the cabin, followed by a still glowering Cassandra.

“You're a virgin? Varric, didn’t she close the Breach? Get her a night at the Blooming Rose. On me!"

“That's… very kind of you,” said Virla. _Void take me, why can’t I stop blushing?_

Cullen spluttered: “You want to thank the Herald of Andraste by sending her to a... brothel?”

“What? Women can't go to brothels, too? You're just not using your imagination. Oh, look! Now you are. You're cute when you blush. And such strong hands too. I could use those hands at my... helm.”

Varric took one look around the cabin, and bowed to Isabela. He offered her his arm and led her out onto the deck. “You need cooling down, Rivaini. You never did tell me how your old ship got wrecked.”

“I told you. I was drunk. I thought the reefs around the Wounded Coast were made of candy.”

Their voices drifted away, and Virla hid her face in her hands. This was going to be a long voyage.

****

Virla was leaning over the deck rail, rocked by the ship as it flew on the breeze. She watched the moonlight dance on the water. The demons had gone. There were no mists and no eerie green glow.

“I don’t think we’ll see the Windline Marcher tonight,” said Solas, startling her. “Sleep well, _lethallin_.”

And he was gone again. He’d been standing in the shadows by the mast. Like her, he’d been dressed in battle armour and carried his staff. She wondered if they’d both been battling demons.

****

The next morning, she leant over the same rail to watch the ship approach the northern coastline.

“Inquisitor… I wanted to apologise for agreeing to Varric’s suggestion that we use Isabela’s ship.”

Cullen was obviously still embarrassed. “It’s all right, Commander. I can’t imagine you would have agreed if Varric had been completely frank about the situation. And we are in a hurry, after all.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I meant to say, before I got… distracted, last night… that one of our mages, Cillian, has managed to interpret those elven glyphs you sent. Here’s his report. The location is on our way.”

She looked at the report. “He thinks they predate the ruins we found them in, possibly transferred on to the stone from a much older edifice that dates back to the original elven nation or even earlier. A lost temple of Dirthamen. Treasure hunters looked there a few years ago, but have not been heard from since. And this is what the Freemen were searching for? I would like to go there. Can we land nearby?”

Suddenly everything was wonderful. She turned around to thank Cullen, face aglow with excitement, and saw Solas leaning against the mast again. Their eyes met, and he smiled.

****

Virla was still trembling with anticipation as they walked down the steps into the temple the next night. It was crumbling and partly flooded, but not completely ruined. How long since elves had worshipped there? Near the entrance were signs of the explorers’ camp. The expedition had been led by an Orlesian, Lord Gretien Faulx; he’d left his journal: _The priests of Dirthamen see and know all._

By a guardian statue-wolf, a veilfire brazier and glyph shone; she lit the first, illuminated the second. Instead of the usual images or runes, it unravelled as a poem in her mind. She recited it to the others.

“It’s strange that I can understand that,” she said, half to herself. To her surprise, Solas answered.

“The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known.”

Magic continued to whisper in her ears as they explored. A side room with an altar whispered _Chamber of Misery_. An altar figure held out a bowl; veilfire lit a skull inside it: _Head of Misery_.

“The altar’s absorbing the fire, _eating_ the magic,” she said, as she gently lifted out the skull. It triggered an attack by possessed corpses. After they’d defeated them she inspected the skull again. “It’s warm.”

“It’s alive,” said Cole, sounding puzzled.

“It is alive because the creature connected to it is alive. It is but one piece of the whole,” said Solas.

He sounded even more confident than usual. Had he been here in the Fade? She passed him the skull, thinking hard. Was it possible that he himself had been a priest of Dirthamen? Secrets, knowledge. Direct questioning sometimes worked on him, but often he’d find a clever way not to answer fully.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“It’s a head, Inquisitor, not a whole body. And it is, as Cole says, alive. It’s logical to assume the rest is alive as well.” He sounded amused, and even Cassandra chuckled. Virla thought: _Don’t tell me, then._

****

They found more veilfire glyphs, and more parts of a body: a tongue of whispers; hands of torment; ears of unheeding; eyes of sorrow; a heart of despondency. Water ran down the walls and through the broken ceilings; large fungi grew, with rashvine and deep mushrooms; the bodies of the dead explorers lay around, faces frozen in fear, taken in the night; some had been possessed. Mosaic pieces, and stone archers like those outside the Shrine to Sylaise in Dirthavaren. Virla felt a terrible sadness.

The explorers’ notes said: _reveal the heart, unite it with the flame; together they will form the key to… liberation? Advancement?_ Suddenly she remembered Solas’ words from that dream Haven: _you hold the key to our salvation_. And the window of the Liberator in Redcliffe Chantry. _Keys do many things_ , Dagna said. She looked down at the Anchor, flaming green; pressed it to her heart. Nothing happened.

In the centre of the temple lay a sanctuary. Owls flew in circles above its broken roof. Four headless statues stood around it: massive female forms with dragon wings. _That’s odd_ , thought Virla, _how do elves connect to dragons_? Around the upper walkway there were murals: four green ones showing an elf carrying a whip, or perhaps a scythe; and two red ones, harder to make out in the dimness. Virla thought they seemed to show the face of a wolf, underneath a lily flower? None of the murals or statues seemed to fit with any legends that she knew of Dirthamen. The frescoes matched those in the Emerald Graves: the walking fox-man; the yellow winged beast; the elven warrior; the watcher.

Cole could _see_ the whispers in some places, which surprised them both: usually he heard magic like a song. As they walked down into the sanctuary, Solas spoke again. “The heart of this place. Here is where the ancient rituals and prayers took place.”

Putting the poems from the glyphs and the explorers’ notes together, it appeared that the elves had disassembled their high priest from paranoia, when Dirthamen had left them. An ancient ritual. Solas recommended caution but did not dissuade her from placing the body pieces on the waiting pedestals. A summoning rift appeared, around an artefact like those that Solas said maintained the Veil. Activating it summoned a demon of despair; they summoned flame and firestorm and slew it.

“So that was the high priest of the temple,” she said, intrigued by the mystery despite its sadness.

Solas sounded sombre. “Imprisoned in silence and despair by his own followers. A sad legacy.”

The ritual had opened a previously sealed door. Inside stood two huge statues of tarnished golden wolves, howling at the sky; a tree grew between them; and at their feet a chest, with an ancient shield: Dirthamen’s Wisdom. _It’s there for us_ , said Cole.

Virla felt its magic pulsing through her. _It's here for me.  
_

  
  
  



	11. Dawn lotus position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is challenging enough for the casual observer to tell the difference between the Fade and the creatures that live within it, let alone between one type of spirit and another. Since spirits are not physical entities and are therefore not restricted to recognizable forms (or even having a form at all), one can never tell for certain what is alive and what is merely part of the scenery.” – Enchanter Mirdromel

“ _Sulevin nadas…_ _sulevin nadas… dirth… ma halani… garas… ma halam...”_

Virla heard whispers, soft in the darkness. Out of the tent she followed their sound. Into the sanctuary, following swiftly. Whispers were echoing softly around. The temple was whole here, clean and unbroken; sparkling mosaics and shimmering gold. Silver and dawnstone; arches and tiling; bright in the moonlight with tales to unfold.

The great doors to the Chamber of the Oracle lay open. The whispers were coming from there.

“ _Garas… ma halani… sulevin nadas… tel’dirth… tel’sulevin… tel’falon… ar isala…_ ”

Her long white dress was making it hard to run; she gathered up its skirts up in one hand and darted to the chamber entrance. A shining shield in silver shone, burnished; reflecting light from a thousand tiny candles. It hung on the opposite wall, suspended by magic between the pair of golden wolves; and in it she could dimly see herself, a pillar of white with braided copper hair.

Virla remembered a broken roof, giant trees and water falling in. This must be a memory too, but much older. Was she dressed as an ancient elven priestess? She thought of the priests turned to despair, and shivered. The temple felt quiet but not peaceful. Perhaps she was not alone?

“ _Sulevin nadas… sulevin nadas…”_

She picked her way up steps and through the candles; walked up to the mirror-shield. Kite-shaped like the shield they’d found here earlier, the one that now lay by Cassandra in the tent they shared. _Dirthamen’s Wisdom_ , it had told her: the shield that saved the temple from complete decay. It had pulsed with magic, and so did this reflection. The whispers were coming through it.

In the mirror, her reflection waited, lit by flickering flames: a beautiful, virginal maid; an acolyte of wisdom; in a single layer of thin white gauze. Her hair reached to her waist, half loose, half braided in gold beads. And as she watched, her hands filled with white dawn lotus flowers: a bouquet for a bride.

She was not alone. At the chamber doors stood Solas, a shadow against the sanctuary’s dark expanse.

“ _Sulevin nadas… ar isala ma, Virlath…_ ” whispered his reflection in the shield, drawing nearer.

And suddenly she was in the shield, and looking out. She felt time stop. The Solas at the entrance had not moved, but his shield-reflection drew up close behind her, hands behind his back. Aching to touch her through the gauze. His breath upon her neck, sharp and painful. Static from an aura not her own.

The voice spoke urgently, and louder. “ _Garas quenathra? Ma halani!”_

Why had she come? She had come seeking wisdom, to help someone, not for a dream of lustful pleasure. _Sulevin nadas_ meant: purpose is required. “ _Dirthamen’enaste,_ ” she whispered, and heard a voice reply from memory: _spirits of wisdom and purpose are too easily turned to pride and desire._

This reflection was not Solas. “ _Mana. Ar lasa mala sulevin,_ ” she said, and turned around as it reached for her, stepped back out of the mirror. Time flowed again. She watched the shield re-form and coalesce into a body. The lotus flowers had gone; the chamber roof was broken; water fell.

A spirit stood before her, formed like an elven man but ghostly orange like the flickering candle-light.

“ _Lath sulevin; lath aravel ena. Ma serannas, lethallin. Tel’enfenim. Tel’him. Ar lasa ghilan._ ”

Solas’ voice echoed round the chamber as he walked up through the candles, fewer in number now. He spoke slowly; his presence seemed to calm the spirit. Virla felt his aura brush her as he passed: no static. Was it really him this time? Were there yet more tests to come? He wore his usual battle robes in teal and silver; she realised with a shock that she wore nothing underneath the gauze. Would it be an insult to this temple and the spirit if she changed what she was wearing? She decided not to risk it.

“You were right, Inquisitor; our friend here is a spirit of purpose. I believe that in this place there is a spell of comprehension so it can understand us when we speak in Common. Ask it what it needs.”

“What do you need?” she asked the spirit, remembering the spirit of command she’d met in Crestwood, and how she’d wished that Solas had been around to grant her guidance then.

“I need purpose. The shield that I protected has been taken. The priests are gone. This place no longer needs me. Where shall I go? What shall I do?” It sounded scared and lost.

“Do you have a name?” asked Solas.

“If I did, I have forgotten it. My purpose was to watch over the shield. But it is gone. It’s gone!”

Virla felt guilty. “The shield is safe. We took it to our camp. I believe… I believed it was there for me.”

Solas shot her a sharp glance, but didn’t ask her to elaborate any further. Instead he closed his eyes and took a calming breath; then spoke to the spirit. “Look into my mind, _lethallin_. What do you see when I look at her?” He opened his eyes again and fixed his gaze on Virla. It was… distracting.

“Wisdom worthy of a god. Intensity of purpose and of beauty. A purity that tempts you to distraction. A raging need that fills a gaping hole...”

Virla flushed bright red. Solas held up his hands: half warning, half acute embarrassment. “ _Vh_ … Virlath… Inquisitor. I’m thinking of the Breach. I apologise. I had forgotten the chaos that arises when another’s mind is present. Could you… could you try to focus on the Breach as well?”

She nodded, mouth suddenly dry. The spirit was strong and old, and if it was corrupted to a demon of desire, what might happen if it possessed her… or him? She used the fear to focus on the Breach; held out the Anchor. She remembered praying to Dirthamen for wisdom as she felt the main rift closing.

Solas spoke again to the spirit. “Look again, _lethallin_. Do not fear. The image should be clearer now.”

“I see… a sword? A sword of purpose here to heal the broken veil, and slay the one who tears it.”

“Is that a good purpose, worthy of this temple? Will you guard her, be her shield? Kneel before her sword? Let her choose your name?”

The spirit nodded, and knelt before Virla. “ _Dirth'ena enasalin_ , I seek to be your guardian.”

 _Dirth'ena enasalin_. The ancient elven name given to the knight-enchanters: knowledge that leads to victory. Solas had told her that, after she’d brought the spirit hilt to learn from Commander Helaine. She looked to Solas for confirmation, and when he also nodded, focused to bring out the knight-enchanter’s spirit blade and held it straight in front of her. The Anchor flickered emerald and gold.

“Your name is _Fen’sulevin_ , wolf of purpose. Find your purpose once again in guarding me.”

A whisper of new knowledge entered: a guardian spirit spell, to call a spirit-wolf. And then she woke.

****

She sat up in the tent, trying to decide if she had passed the test. The shield, real and heavy, lay by Cassandra’s empty bedroll. Outside she heard Cassandra making breakfast, and Solas’ voice.

“I need to speak with the Inquisitor. Alone.”

“She is sleeping still. Can it not wait until she has awoken?”

“She will have woken now.”

It had given her time to draw a blanket around her body. Solas came into the tent and sat beside her.

“Inquisitor. Are you all right?”

“I… think so. That was strange. I don’t think I have ever encountered such a powerful spirit. Was it safe to bind it to me in that way?”

“It is not bound, Inquisitor; or at least, not bound against its nature. It chose to serve you, just like Cole has chosen to follow you. If you do not fear him, you should not fear it.”

“But Cole is a spirit of compassion; and more, since he can learn. This one – that I named Fen’sulevin – he is stronger.”

“You may find it helpful if you continue to refer to it as “it”, not “he”,” said Solas, carefully. “Did it… ah… were you concerned that it might turn into a demon of desire? Did it take on a person’s form?”

“You didn’t see that?” asked Virla, surprised. It seemed there was so much she had to learn.

“I saw you talking with it. You said _ar lasa mala sulevin_ , and I was happy that you had recognised its true nature. I was impressed: it is rare for someone so young and inexperienced to have such keen discernment.” He looked down, ears tinged pink. “I was also… distracted… by your choice of apparel.”

“My choice? I thought they were the robes of ancient servants, priests within that Temple.”

His gaze flicked up to hers, his mouth twitching with suppressed amusement. “From my explorations of the Fade, I do not believe so. In any case, if you are fighting with demons of desire, it might be best to wear something less… obviously alluring.”

She felt like hitting him with something. Her eyes lit on a book left by the shield: Varric’s latest romance, Swords and Shields. Cassandra was re-reading it. And then she gasped: the cover showed a woman looking up to a man sat on a horse; and she wore the thin white dress.

Solas’ eyes followed hers, and the tension melted away as they both dissolved into peals of laughter.

****

The long ride north towards the border with Nevarra gave rise to no more strange encounters, either in the day or in the night. Virla found she could now sense the shield that Solas put up round his own dreams in the Fade. Avoiding further complications might be wise, but she regretted its necessity.

The Shrine of Dumat was a walled complex, half destroyed and pockmarked with red lyrium. Tevinter dragon statues peered through smoke and flame; were emblazoned black and writhing on the doors.

“Samson must have ordered his templars to sack his headquarters so we couldn’t,” said Cullen.

“It appears he has fled, Commander,” said Solas, sounding like the soldier he’d once confessed to be.

Samson’s officer Maddox still remained, though not for long: he’d drunk his entire supply of blightcap essence and died in agony, but proud. _Samson saved me; gave me purpose; I wanted to help._

A letter had been left for Cullen: _Drink enough lyrium and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry used us. You’re fighting the wrong battle._ He threw it away in anger and walked over to some tools.

“These are implements for working lyrium safely,” said Solas. “The craftsmanship is remarkable.”

“Tranquil often design their own tools. Dagna should be able to make sense of them. If Maddox used them to make Samson’s armour, she could use them to unmake it.” Cullen grinned. “We have him.”

****

They had ridden out of Val Royeaux a few days later, continuing the long trek south and west. To meet with Hawke and Warden Alistair by the Abyssal Rift they would cross the entirety of Orlais. The journey took them from one dusty extreme to another, passing through the verdant centre of it all.

Josephine had greeted them in Val Royeaux, with fulsome apologies for the missing ship that should have taken them across the Waking Sea. A Comte Boisvert had offered to meet the Inquisitor and to explain why the House of Repose was targeting Josephine’s family, the Montilyets. Virla had accepted; it had been her first taste of the Game that so enthralled Orlesian nobles.

Apparently this oddly-named assassins’ guild had a contract which required them to eliminate anyone attempting to overturn the Montilyets’ trading exile in Orlais, signed over a century ago but still extant. The du Paraquettes had fallen out with the Montilyets over an attempted elopement between their families, and their vengeance followed on from beyond the grave of the noble line’s extinction. Virla thought it like a farce: assassins afraid of seeming impolite; Josephine turning farmers into nobles to avoid further bloodshed; the first step tracking down a countess’ missing lover.

Her dreams were full of wooden parrots; politely sleeping killers; golden scythes: genres mixing.

They were also increasingly and terrifyingly full of Solas. Cole said she was growing brighter, that her burgeoning power sang louder to the spirits. And while the link with Fen’sulevin, however it really worked, repelled wisps and lesser demons, it still left her open to the stronger denizens of the Fade.

As they rode into the hot and sandy western deserts, Solas grew ever more withdrawn. She learned to avoid the subject of the Wardens; rode quietly beside him; passed him dinner with a smile. She tried to coax his interest with questions: _How does this guardian spirit magic work? Where do you think Corypheus has gone?_ But his answers remained brief and vague. It was thoroughly unsatisfying.

The demons (for none of them were spirits) took advantage. She dreamt fitfully, woke exhausted:

> _…Solas’ disembodied head above a walking tower of bone, eight chains of iron pulling at his heart…_
> 
> _…soft hands playing round your breasts, unwrapping from eight veils of silk, the scent of elfroot…_
> 
> _…tied naked to a ship’s wheel (eight spars) with hempen rope, to fuck you hard until the ship is sunk…_
> 
> _…in a white dress on mosaic tiling, watched by eight Creators; he licks your orb with firm slow strokes…_
> 
> _…you are a dragon lemniscating in the mist, the parrot (pieces of eight) that you burned was him…_

And there was no-one she could talk to about it all. Just a muttered _demons_ and a prayer (to whom?).

  
  



	12. Undermining vandal aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undermining in chess: removing a piece that defends another one. The vandal aria smells of honey and cut grass, and will choke out other plants if left to its own devices. Would a rose by any other name sing as sweet, or sweeter?

Another dream-soaked night, another dawn. Virla sat beside the campfire wrapped in a plaideweave blanket over armour, for comfort more than warmth. Sand stretched out to meet the sky in all directions: burnt orange under cool grey morning light. She thought of sunrise by the eastern seaboard; birdsong in the Wycome forests. A world away from here.

It helped to rationalise the dreams while waking, to categorise the pieces. Last night there had been two: first a lesser demon of desire, pretending to be Solas by his fresco, whispering _we can be together_. She knew she was not at Skyhold, and dispatched it. The second had been a terror demon, chasing her as she rode Mi'nan through the sand. She soon realised her mistake and turned and killed.

The hardest part when dreaming and attacked by desire or pride was not the killing: it was when she let herself decide it was a demon. To embrace the story that they wove was comforting and soothing; to fight it was to be immersed in agonising pain. The stronger the demon, the greater the comfort of the story offered; and the greater the agony when realisation dawned. At least with terror or despair there was no such contrast. She glared down at her left hand, stirring porridge. All mages knew the theory: shine brighter and you will attract more moths.

The hardest part when waking was not to wonder what Solas might be seeing in his dreams. But it possibly explained why he seemed more distant in the mornings.

****

One by one the others emerged from tents and sat around, gulping down hot porridge.

Cole broke the silence first, looking at Cassandra. “You're sad about the Seekers.”

“That takes no magical gift to understand, Cole.”

“The room with the candle. It wasn't a lie. Your faith was real.”

“The same could be said for Lambert or Lucius. A single moment of perfect faith does not make one immune to fault.”

She sighed, and Solas said quietly, “Now that you know them corrupt, you must determine which parts of yourself to discard and which to keep.”

“I assume you have advice?”

Solas sounded surprised. “I would hardly presume. In our travels, I have been impressed by your honesty and your faith. It is a difficult path, Seeker, but if anyone can walk it honourably, you can.”

She pursed her lips, but accepted the compliment. “I noticed, Solas, that you did not seem surprised by what I uncovered about the Seekers.”

“Given enough time, any organisation will succumb to corruption. To survive, an organization must devote resources to maintaining itself. Those resources inevitably accumulate, until the original purpose, however pure, is all but lost.”

“You make the Seekers sound like a mindless beast.”

“A beast, no matter how mindless, will die and give way to a successor. An organization is eternal. There are always corrupt men who hoard power for their own gain. And there are always honourable men who hoard power to fight them.”

“And honourable women?” asked Cassandra. She turned to smile at Virla, adding: “Like Andraste long ago, the fate of Thedas will be determined by a woman. It makes me proud to know her.”

Virla shrugged. “I'm not hoarding power. It would be arrogant to think I'm doing this on my own.”

“You think that sharing your power avoids the temptation to misuse it?" asked Solas. "A noble sentiment... but ultimately, a mistake. While one selfless woman may walk away from the lure of power's corruption, no group has ever done so.”

“There's a first time for everything. But you are right in general. Mother Giselle told me that the original Inquisition put their swords away when they were no longer needed. They became the Seekers. The knowledge that they held would ultimately corrupt them, but they did much that was good before they fell.”

She smiled at them all, but inside she was thinking: _Shartan died. Andraste was betrayed._

****

The sombre mood persisted as they rode south across the desert, scarves wrapped round faces to keep the hot sand out. They had one detour to make before the rendezvous with Hawke: to a temple near an oasis. Leliana had arranged for Harding to meet them there: the location had been indicated by a scroll originally kept by Markham’s Circle. It linked the temple (possibly elven) to the shards they had been finding, viewed through oculara set up by the Venatori. Another mystery, thought Virla.

In late afternoon they found it, nestled within a canyon. Harding explained that the Venatori were already present, along with hyenas, the remnants of a mining expedition out of Val Firmin, and a giant. The reports they read suggested the remains certainly predated the Second Blight; much older than anything in the Dales. There were several identical statues of a man who carried another, larger, head. An explorer with the miners had entitled it _The Weight of War_ : duty without claims to personal glory.

The oasis itself lay peaceful, sunken below the normal desert level. Some magic must prevent it filling up with sand. It whispered a name: _Intrinsic Pool_. Blood lotus flowers waved beside it.

“It’s beautiful,” said Cassandra. They cleared the area of shades and wraiths (and the giant), and set up another camp beside the water. That night Virla slept soundly, lulled by gently calling tuskets.

****

The next day they explored the maze of mines and ancient passages cut into the rock. The miners had been afraid of something connected with the temple; some incident had happened involving a miner: Saul Didot. The mines had closed soon after, in 9:39 Dragon, two years previously. After circling through the Spiral Mine, they dropped down to a ledge beside the sunken temple. Virla had now read the full report: their researchers thought the ancient elves had called it Solasan, the place of pride. A funny coincidence, she thought, to go to Solasan with Solas! But modern elven names often had transparent meanings: had not her own, _the path of love_ , embarrassed her at times?

Beside the door, Virla read an inscription: _Emma solas him var din’an. Tel garas Solasan. Melana en athim las enaste_. Cassandra looked uncertain, and she pointed her to the translation below it: _Arrogance became our end. Come not to a prideful place. Now let humility grant favour._

Cole was staring at the eight-pointed sun carved above the door. “I’m afraid. It wants us to be afraid.”

Virla took six of the shards that Harding had arranged to bring from Skyhold, and fitted them into the door. It swung open and they went inside, looking around for traps. Roots grew through the ceiling.

“That ill feeling by the entry. It’s not present here,” said Cassandra, inspecting a pair of ancient tombs.

“I believe it was a magical ward of sorts,” said Solas. “A warning, perhaps, or a test.”

Virla nodded in agreement, and led the way down stairs to where three more locked doors stood huge and waiting. Above each one was carved another sun. More _eights_ , as in her dreams. There was a veilfire glyph as well, but not a weapon rune. The meaning behind the flowing ancient script was obscure at first, but slowly formed: _May the path bestow the favour thou hast earned_. For a moment, Virla saw an image of figures kneeling in meditation. A bright light enveloped them, then faded.

She put six shards into the rightmost door. It opened and she shrank back from the heat inside. They walked into a further room with fires burning behind iron grilles set in the wall and floor. Sweat was soon dripping down her back; and Cassandra looked even more uncomfortable in her burnished armour. They were attacked by corpses, assailed by fire runes that flared at random on the floor. In the centre was a closed tomb, and she gently pushed aside the lid. A golden spark flew out and into her.

“Did that hurt?” asked Cole.

“I feel a bit strange,” said Virla. It had felt like some kind of… protective magic? She looked to Solas.

“You’re shinier, but not where everyone can see,” said Cole, as Solas nodded: _it’s ok._

“The magic was drawn to you, possibly because of your mark. The effects were purely benign.”

“If it wasn’t a trap, what was it?”

“It may be a reward for those who prove themselves worthy,” said Solas, but he didn’t smile.

“ _Melana en athim las enaste_ ,” quoted Virla, under her breath.

They had enough shards to open four more doors, acquire more magic. Was the temple meant for meditation? For initiates to calm their spirits by surviving heat, enduring cold, defeating demons? It surprised her that there were no statues of the elven gods: just the faintest hints of scarabs and stone roundel faces. It might have once been covered in bright fresco, but there were no traces left of paint.

****

As they rode deeper into the Approach, towards the Abyssal Rift, signs of civilization increased. More mines, more spiders (eight legs; Virla shuddered), and more red lyrium deaths of captured refugees.

“All of this once belonged to the Tevinter Imperium,” said Cassandra. “Andraste changed that, as did the Blights. As for what will come next… I cannot guess the Maker’s plan.”

Strange creatures made their home here: phoenixes, quillbacks, varghests. And familiar ones: a terror demon from a Fade rift knocked Virla into the sand, landing on top of Solas. There was a hot pause, auras pulsing, where instinctively he clutched at her, before releasing. He apologised, politely.

Lights were coming from the former ritual tower: blood magic? No time to waste. Hawke and Warden Alistair were waiting. They went straight in, not quite in time to prevent a Warden mage from killing a reluctant Warden warrior and conjuring a demon from its corpse. The mage’s eyes glowed red. Virla strode into the courtyard, frowning at the waste and at the man who led the ritual: caught red-handed.

“Inquisitor. What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

He bowed, and Virla remembered: _I will not kneel. Not to humans, not to Tevinter, never to the dark._ Erimond exchanged acid pleasantries with Alistair, showing the Warden mages were enslaved to his will, explaining how he had deceived Clarel, the Warden-Commander of Orlais.

“Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake. The Wardens did it of their own free will. Fear is a very good motivator, and they were _very_ afraid.”

“Why would the Wardens try to kill the Old Gods?” asked Virla. _Weren’t they the Tevinter gods?_

“A Blight happens when darkspawn find an Old God and corrupt it into an Archdemon. If someone fought through the Deep Roads and killed the Old Gods before they could be corrupted… poof! No more Blights. Ever. The Wardens sacrifice their lives and save the world.”

“That’s madness! For all we know, killing the Old Gods could make things even worse!”

It was Solas. Rage radiated from him, from his aura, in a way she’d never seen, or felt, before.

****

Erimond had tried to make her kneel by force: his glowing red right hand commanding magic. But she had resisted, pulling from the mark and her own and Solas’ anger to throw the Tevinter lord on to the floor, where he lay gasping. He’d fled, leaving the Wardens and their tortured demons as distraction. Hawke was also furious with the Wardens: _everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions… and it never matters. In the end, you are always alone with your actions._

“I believe I know where the Wardens are,” said Alistair, pointing in the direction Erimond had fled. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress that way: Adamant.”

They split up: Hawke and Alistair to scout the fortress; the others back to camp to write reports to Skyhold. They could secure a broader area while they waited for Cullen to send forces for a siege.

It was evening now. Solas was storming restlessly around the campfire, glaring, almost shouting at her.

“We must stop the Wardens from carrying out this insane plan, Inquisitor. To seek out these Old Gods deliberately in some bizarre attempt to pre-empt the Blight…”

“And calling the army of demons. That’s my favourite part,” snapped Cassandra.

He sneered. “The demons are nothing. They’re a tool.”

“A tool that gives Corypheus an army,” said Virla, remembering the future seen at Redcliffe.

“That’s not the point. Even if they could succeed, the entire idea is wrong. The Blight is not something one smugly outsmarts.”

Cassandra sighed. “I wouldn’t mind never having another Blight again. Corypheus interfering is the real problem.”

“The Blight is the real problem.” He paced up and down. Virla could see his aura sparking wildfire.

“And the Wardens are trying to end the Blight forever,” continued Cassandra, oblivious to the magic.

“Yes! Would it have worked? Do you know? Did they? The fools who first unleashed the Blight upon this world thought they were unlocking ultimate power.”

He paused and came to sit down beside Virla on the ground, still shaking. Took a deep breath. “Forgive me. The entire idea is… unnerving.”

  
  
  



	13. Brimstone fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vandal aria that was only present in spirit in the previous chapter (as the song of the Blight) is real in this one. Brimstone is a variety of deep mushroom which also carries the Blight.

The Inquisition had taken Griffon Wing Keep from a small force of Venatori. Their leader Macrinus shouted defiance as he died: _Life is nothing. He will reign. Master, I join you in your glory_. There was an astrarium nearby, depicting the constellation Toth, or Ignifir. Virla remembered that Toth was the Dragon of Fire and Tevinter Old God who had been corrupted in the Third Blight.

The first squadron of troops had arrived to man the keep, and darkspawn had emerged soon after: hurlocks and ghouls. They weren’t coming from the Abyssal Rift, nor from Adamant Fortress, but appeared to be coming across the sulphurous pits to the north. Virla had arranged for the troops to construct bridges high enough to allow them to traverse the pits above the level of the toxic fumes.

This had opened up the way to a cave: red candles round a four-armed statue warm to touch and shivering with a pulse, a Thing in the Dark; a battered copy of Brother Genitivi’s _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ ; a mosaic piece; an Aegis of the Order (shield between the unnatural and folly).

Everything felt unnatural to Virla: the orange sand, the purple shards of lazurite; the blue sky over sulphurous pits; the darkspawn. She’d done her best to calm down Solas: _we’re going to stop them together_ ; but sensed that his veneer was close to cracking, splintered by the Wardens’ folly and the blighted memories that pushed and pulled around them. Cole had retreated into himself ever since they’d mentioned Adamant: he’d been there before. Cassandra’s shields were up as well.

Perhaps they all needed time alone. She started reading Genitivi’s _Tales_ , thought on the darkspawn:

> _More virulent than the worst plague… spread disease and famine wherever they tread… the earth itself is corrupted by their presence, the sky rolling with angry black clouds… an omen of dread cataclysm… in the shadows they multiplied… Dumat was transformed into the first Archdemon, his great and terrible power given will by a rotting, unholy mind… the eye of a dark storm that would ravage the entire world… twisted creatures… the dwarves: an entire civilization lost… a story of pride and damnation._

At night she fought with terror and despair, with rage and fear. And in the day? The same.

****

She’d got used to melee fighting, but made an exception for darkspawn. They stunned and froze them at range: it helped protect from the plague they carried, but also stopped her having to look them in the eyes. This hurlock alpha, eight feet high: once a Warden, merely a descendent? She turned away, half-blind with grief and sorrow. The view from this outlook might have been beautiful once. Another astrarium atop stone stairs: another cruel god?

As she moved the dweomer controls (eight stars to connect, ten edges, five triangles), Cassandra spoke.

“Solas, what do you think this Corypheus actually is?”

“A darkspawn, as he appears.”

“But what of the orb he wields and the dragon he commands? This is no ordinary darkspawn.”

“His true advantage is the red lyrium. It is corrupted by the Blight as he is, thus taps into its power twofold. Whatever he was before, _that_ is what makes him dangerous now.”

The orb. They’d never spoken of the orb again, since that night beside the veilfire. _Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon_ , he’d said. In Corypheus’ hand it had glowed red, just like Erimond’s hand. She finished constructing the constellation, thought about her hand. How had she got this mark? Corypheus had implied it had been created from the orb, but how could that be? Was it some elven power? Did it carry any taint of Blight’s corruption? The thought briefly terrified her, but then she thought: if it had, she would not have been able to resist Corypheus or Erimond. Perhaps the orb had been Mythal’s, the Great Protector, and its power now protected her?

She rifled through _A Study of Thedosian Astronomy_ , found the page for this constellation: Fenrir.

> _Called "White Wolf" in common parlance, Fenrir has always been considered an oddity among scholars, primarily because wolves have no special place within ancient Tevinter folklore. To many, this represents the strongest argument that the Imperium deliberately supplanted older elven constellation names - in the case of Fenrir, an alignment with the elven trickster god, Fen'Harel, would be logical. Others claim a much older Neromenian tale of a wolf escaping hunters by fleeing into the sky exists, but the legend's veracity has never been proved._

“Fleeing, flying, Fenrir, Fen’Harel; the white wolf never visits; but if he would, he could,” said Cole.

Fen’Harel was clever in the tales, tricksy, ruthless even, but not capricious. She remembered a rumour heard from another Dalish mage she’d met before the Conclave: of a Mask of Fen’Harel that created a portal to the Fade if powered with elven blood. Were her new powers somehow linked to Fen’Harel?

She suppressed a shudder: to be the Dread Wolf’s pawn? She’d almost rather think about darkspawn. Their trail led down a shaft into an old Tevinter prison, a dark pit, Coracavus. It resembled the Shrine of Dumat, but with bleeding corpses instead of red lyrium and fire, and darkspawn to fight rather than red templars. The torture chambers reminded her of Redcliffe. There was a note on one dismembered corpse: _the giants are half-feral. There’s no room for a weak hand. One is enough to move debris under excavation, but keep it under control. We don’t need the whole building coming down._

“So they were using the giant as a beast of burden,” she said, thinking out loud.

“They’re very strong and very angry,” explained Cole.

A little while later, they found the opening where the darkspawn had been coming through. She worked with Solas to energize an iron grille and seal it shut. A Deep Roads rift, of sorts? Notes left by the Venatori suggested that they had no idea their excavations would break into the Deep Roads, and had fled. As Solas had said when she’d managed to calm him down: _responsibility is not expertise_.

There were eight-pointed stars on the walls and faded ancient fresco, as well as the familiar Tevinter hexagons, entwined snakes and slave cages. Atop a mound of sand she saw a strange plant growing: it smelled of honey. Was it safe to pick?

“Vandal aria,” said Solas, stripping it of leaves. “It grows best where it’s arid; chokes out other plants.”

****

Virla was using the same leaves two weeks later to make armour tonics. They were preparing for the siege of Adamant, the Warden fortress whence Erimond had fled. She was thinking about the Wardens: were they scared or stupid? The Calling in their heads was another song, another aria. But surely even thinking that you were about to die did not justify making your fellow Wardens demons?

At some point in the last two weeks she’d come to terms with death. Her twentieth birthday passed, unmarked: why count years when life might pass in days? Why remind them of her inexperience?

A new calmness of purpose settled on her. Fewer demons in her dreams; instead she merely dreamt of sand; of lying on the desert watching dragons fly. Perhaps it was the elven artefacts they’d found, or the distraction of meeting Frederic of Serault, researcher and professor. He was obsessed with dragons: _fascinating and little-understood creatures, thought extinct for centuries. Now they seem to be making a comeback_. He found a willing listener in Virla: a relief to talk to someone so intent upon his studies that he never saw the larger picture. It had helped distract her from the fight to come.

There’d been other distractions too: relief depictions of Razikale, Old God of Mysteries; mosaic pieces; shards for Solasan. Most strange of all had been a ruin frozen in time, until they unlocked the staff and sealed the Fade rift. Frederic had been interested in a Tevene manuscript they’d taken: _are these the chambers of the draconic heart?_ She’d sent it off to Skyhold with an agent to see to its translation.

She spent the night before the siege in meditation: praying in turn for the blessing of each Creator, and last of all to Fen’Harel. Even if she were his pawn, perhaps he would protect her from the demons.

****

The fighting had been hard, but they’d found Clarel. And Erimond. _Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them. / And then **he** binds your mages to Corypheus. / Corypheus? But he’s dead._

It had briefly shaken Clarel, but she regrouped, and commanded the Wardens to summon a demon through a Fade rift in the courtyard. Virla’s body sang with pain: even from the far side of the Veil she felt its keening power. Smaller demons were clustering as well. She strode forward with Hawke and Alistair; tried once more to get Clarel to listen: _you’re being used / blood magic is never worth the cost_.

Some Wardens looked convinced. “The mages, they’re not right… like puppets on a string,” said one.

Clarel hesitated. “Perhaps we should test the truth of these charges, to avoid further bloodshed.”

“Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally,” snapped Erimond, taut with rage. He struck his staff three times upon the flagstones, sparking crimson red. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor. He sent me this to welcome you!”

A different keening, from the sky, that brought back nightmares of Haven. Virla leapt aside, knowing what it was before she looked, before the scorching breath trailed red along the ground: Corypheus’ dragon. Clarel looked as much in pain from it as she was from the nearness of the demon. Wardens fight archdemons. She blasted it with lightning, cried _Help the Inquisitor!_ and fled, pursued by dragon.

“Clarel is hurting. We need to help her!” cried Cole.

Solas looked grey; injured by the shades: Virla tossed him a potion; cast another barrier round him. They subdued the demons and tore up to the battlements, following Clarel. The dragon circled round, shooting giant blasts of lyrium-fire that knocked them over. Masonry fell, lashed free by its tail. At one point they were running in its foul crimson breath towards its head, gold flames licking round barriers. Each talon on its claw was almost as big as she was; sharp teeth were like fingers of bone in its mouth.

They ran up more steps, past Orlesian banners, past a headless statue of a man holding a ram’s head (familiar?), saw Clarel fight Erimond, consumed with rage and guilt: _I will **never** serve the Blight._

He lay prone; the dragon swooped, took Clarel in its jaws, flew round, shook her, spat her out, shocked and bleeding. It stalked down over the battlements, heading straight for Virla. They stood atop the fortress: no escape save plunging into the Abyssal Rift. Clarel hit the dragon with a barrage of energy, the last of her strength. It was forced back, tumbling, out of control, wings and claws battering the stone on which they stood. Virla felt, with shuddering horror, the stones beneath her feet give way.

They raced against the tide of stone, as it crumbled and fell into the abyss. Alistair was clinging to the edge; she ran back and pulled him up. Almost safe, when she felt a blast of lightning magic hit her in the back. It threw her off the edge just as the entire section fell. _Dread Wolf take me, not the Void,_ she thought, and focused on the Anchor. Could it open a rift as well as close them?

Falling faster now, she focused harder. _Open, open…_ And then she saw it, a crack of Fade-green light. She whispered _widen, widen_ ; they all fell through. Down and down, then up? New gravities took hold.

****

“Well, this is unexpected,” said Alistair. His gravity was different: a sideways version.

Hawke was upside-down. “We were falling. Is this… are we dead?”

Solas had landed on his feet, like Virla. She followed his gaze to a giant statue of… Andraste? It stood shrouded in the swirling mist, half-hidden by a broken bridge of stone. Ash flew around; wraiths floated in the distance. She winced. Red lyrium growths were here as well. And that headless statue.

“No, this is the Fade. The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came here… and survived. I never thought I would ever come here physically. Look. The Black City. Almost close enough to touch.” He sounded awestruck.

Virla could understand his wonder. To walk the land of dreams, like the ancient elves once did with Dirthamen and Falon’Din? And not dead… that was good as well. Had she been in some place like this before she’d been found at Haven? She had no memories of that.

But Cole was terrified, stumbling over rocks: “I... I... I can’t be here. Not like this. Not like me.”

Solas walked over to him, steadied him with words. “It’s all right. We’ll make it right.”

“This place is wrong. I made myself forget, when I made myself real, but I... I know it wasn’t like this.”

They resolved to try to escape through the Fade rift that still lay open to the courtyard: it hung high above the twisted spires of blackened stone. Solas said to Virla and Cassandra: “This is fascinating. It is not the area I would have chosen, of course. But to physically walk within the Fade…”

He sighed in pleasure; Cassandra frowned. “Concentrate on the task at hand, mage. There is nothing more dangerous than this place.”

 _I think we know about the Fade, Cassandra._ “Thank you for the warning,” he shot back.

And, yet, Cassandra had a point: the last to physically walk the Fade (apart from her) had been cast out as darkspawn. _If_ you believed the Chantry. Nettled by them both, Virla tried not to sound sarcastic in response to Solas. “I don’t suppose you have any words of wisdom for this part of the Fade?”

“Why would I ever have voluntarily come to _this_ part of the Fade? The demon that controls this area is extremely powerful. Some variety of fear, I would guess. I suggest you remain wary of its manipulations and prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”

He was at his most fey and cautious, and yet… he had looked more frightened by the dragon or the falling than the thought of a powerful dread demon. Had he not felt the pain it caused even through the Veil? Or perhaps, with the Fade shaped by intent and emotion, he knew they must not fear.

She looked around. A shining sun lit the grey-green sky, reflected in the shallow pools of water on the ground. White light shone out from suspended blackened walls. Sideways gravity held a table set for six: two skulls, a pie, a fish, a pig’s head and a ram’s. Carvings of the screaming bearded ghoul; Fereldan dogs in open mouths; wasp bodies holding jars to heads that flamed with veilfire; brimstone mushrooms; the Elfsblood horned woman on the skulls.

_Fascinating? Yes, perhaps._

  
  
  



	14. Whither stalks and skewers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attack the queen: if when it moves to save itself, another piece must die? That's a skewer. Might the Dread Wolf stalk a rose until she withers, or is his target something else?

To catalogue the strangeness of this place: where to start? The ground: marked as if a giant creature's lungs and innards had been turned to stone; half-sunken corpses petrifying? The air: where towers of stone floated untethered, lit within, dripping water, below that grey-green sky. The carvings: different periods, scales and styles, fear's menagerie.

And more familiar touches: a Chantry banner, a candle to light the final hours of a pilgrim, fading in and out of dreams of monsters inside the black. She placed it, felt the fading spirit bless her soul with magic. Another burning candle by a note, written in haste... and recent? It talked of Haven and of Adamant: _our sacrifice may give the important people the chance to do what is necessary... I am so afraid, Maker._ Was this a place where people came on death? Some Dalish said that Fen'Harel still walked the Fade, feasting on the souls of the dead. Had the rift opened straight into his realm?

“This place is unpleasant,” said Solas, as they looked into a shattered mirror. A book lay on a bookcase: writings of a magister, Callistus. It advised humility, to trust the spirits, to let the Fade teach you of itself. Two ravens stood guarding sunlit stairs; she whispered _Dirthamen'enaste_ as she climbed.

But at the top stood no elven god nor wolf, but a woman dressed in Chantry robes. _Was that...?_ She stepped forward, hesitant. Beside her, Alistair whispered: _no, it can't be..._

“I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion.”

Cassandra stopped in shock. “Divine Justinia? Most Holy?”

“Cassandra.” It was a formal greeting, not a reuniting of lost friends.

“From the little I remember of what happened at Haven, I thought you were dead,” said Virla.

Alistair concurred. “I don't recall the Divine glowing. In my experience, that's something spirits do.”

“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have. I am here to help you. You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

“The real Divine would have no way of knowing that I'd been made Inquisitor.”

“I know because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.”

“I'd like to have a few words with this Nightmare about that,” said Alistair.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden. This place of darkness is its lair.”

“Corypheus seems to have a lot of demons at his disposal,” said Virla, asking the question uppermost in her mind. “How does he command so many?”

“I know not how he commands his army of demons. His power may come from the Blight itself. But the Nightmare serves willingly, for Corypheus has brought much terror to this world. He was one of the magisters who unleashed the First Blight upon the world, was he not? Every child's cry as the Archdemon circles, every dwarf's whimper in the Deep Roads... the Nightmare has fed well.”

“Can you help us get out of the Fade?”

“That is why I found you. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it. These are your memories, Inquisitor.”

The Fade coalesced into four wraiths: she killed them and absorbed the memories they carried. A flash of white; she closed her eyes in pain; opened them to memory. Divine Justinia suspended in the air, held captive by Grey Wardens channelling red. Corypheus strode in, holding the orb in his left hand. _Bring forth the sacrifice._ The orb flared green, not red, as he held it up to the Divine. Her past self opened a door: _What's going on in here?_ It distracted him and Justinia used the chance to bat the orb away; it landed at Virla's feet. She picked it up: it blazed, grew large, unlocked? Her hand inflamed.

As soon as the memories dissipated, Alistair walked up to her. “So that Mark on your hand... It wasn't sent by Andraste. It came from that orb Corypheus was using.”

Justinia nodded. “Corypheus intended to rip open the veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for the Old Gods, but for himself. When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead.”

Posturing about the orb could wait. “Was that everything you wanted me to see?”

“For the time being. You cannot escape the lair of the Nightmare until you regain all that it took from you. You have recovered some of yourself, but now it knows you are here. You must make haste. I will prepare the way ahead.”

After it left, Cassandra was still shivering. “Could that truly have been the Most Holy?”

“We have survived in the Fade physically. Perhaps she did as well. Or, if it is a spirit that identifies so strongly with Justinia that it believes it is her, how can we say it is not?” Solas’ voice was gentle now.

“Whatever she is, she seems to want to help us,” added Alistair. _She, not it._

“And what of the demon she mentioned?” asked Hawke. “This Nightmare sounds dangerous.”

“It's nothing like me,” said Cole. “I make people forget to help them. It eats their fears. I don't know if I could do that, but I don't. I don't want to. That's not me.”

“Peace, Cole,” said Solas. “None of us mistake you for the Nightmare. It is a fear demon, as I suspected, likely drawing on terrors related to the Blight. Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, pride, compassion... every emotion save perhaps desire. Be wary. The Nightmare will do anything in its power to weaken our resolve.”

Alistair growled. “But after what it did to the Wardens, it's going to learn to fear for itself.”

****

They walked on. Virla found a letter written in a shaking hand. It talked of Starkhaven, the time of the Fourth Blight. _Watch for the crows. Those birds have the good sense to fear the blight. They watch patiently, and they let their fear keep them alive._ More echoes of Dirthamen.

“Ah, we have a visitor.” The Nightmare's voice? It made sense that it would sound like Corypheus to her. “Some silly little girl comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten. You think that pain will make you stronger. What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is _me_. But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

Ignore it and move on. She recognised Dumat's Claws from his shrine. There were words somehow preserved in blood at the base, written by a servant of Corypheus around the time he took that name. _The elves of old were tied to the Fade... He would need to call upon the magic that lives in our blood. Master once laughed and joked. He could be stern, but he was not a cruel man. The weakening of the temples brought fear into his heart... He listens only to the voices in his dreams. The Claw of Dumat, great and spiked and merciless, is all my mind can see._

Nearby, a bunch of flowers. She gave them to the spirit of a freeholder: beauty still exists; go in peace. Around, some stones were veined in green and some in red. More pairs of ravens lined the way. Water poured from copies of the Elfsblood statues: representing memories? And high above, stone Andraste, her arms outstretched around a floating tower; her face obscured. Virla led them down more steps.

Cassandra jumped as spiders clambered down the walls. “What are those things?”

Solas cast a barrier. “Those are little fears, tiny manifestations spawned from the Nightmare itself.”

“And they take the form of spiders, something so many fear,” said Hawke, killing one.

Cassandra looked perplexed. “Spiders? I see maggots, crawling in filth.”

Virla flashed Solas a wry smile as he responded. “Remember, we walk in the Fade. Demons of fear shape their appearance to unnerve each of us.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” said Cassandra, clearly not. She ran on, not following the ravens.

They ran after her. Solas muttered: “Interesting.” A corpse was burning from its head, a mage. It whispered _I want them to burn, I want it, want it..._ It exploded, transforming into a rage demon.

“Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition." The Nightmare in their minds again. It laughed, horrible and deep. "Are you afraid, Cole? I can help you forget. Just like you help other people. We're so very much alike, you and I.”

“No,” said Cole, and said no more. He watched more burning corpses changing into wraiths.

“Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your "faith" has been for naught.”

“Die in the void, demon,” shouted the Seeker, driving her sword into another demon of rage.

“ _Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din._ ” Odd. _Why call her a traitor?_

But it was Solas that responded _Banal nadas_ , while she paused in shock. _Why call him that?_

She could not think about it here. They backtracked to the ravens, a path between two dragon statues. At the base of one a book: the journal of an unnamed Templar. _Dragons are beasts, mindless, terrible._

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn't even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god? You're a failure, and your family died knowing it.”

“Of course, a fear demon would know where to hurt us most. We must ignore it,” said the Champion.

Near a clutch of spider eggs, some writing in an elegant script: _you are too young to worry so, my child. Write your worries down here. All your fears are smaller once you have defined them..._ The child had written darkspawn, darkspawn, the sun will die, father dying from the blight. _Who wrote the preface?_

Justinia stood below a winged statue, like those in Dirthamen’s Temple but complete. “The Nightmare is closer now. It knows you seek escape. With each moment, it grows stronger. Ask what you must.”

Virla questioned her. _The Nightmare steals people’s darkest fears… at best it is a mistake borne of compassion. Without fear, and pain, and failure, we cannot learn. We cannot grow. The minds of mankind are made real here. Their hopes, their dreams, their fears. What changes their world also changes this one. And yours are footsteps that move mountains in both. The mark is a key to lock or unlock a door to the Fade, the needle that passes through the Veil, as little else can; you are the thread._

****

If she was the thread then she’d pray to Sylaise who taught the elves to spin: _help me not unravel._ She’d unlocked further memories: it had been the Divine behind her in the Fade, not Andraste. She’d kept her comrades calm; fought demons; eased more fears of Dreamers: burnt a tarot card to combat the dread hand of Fate; given a stuffed nug to a child; laid a vial of darkspawn blood on the table of an ancient scholar. A comfort to have Solas there, to draw strength from his experience of the Fade.

She’d read inscriptions (God of Silence, who speaks to the faithful in dreams, no words of desire may sway his will); memories etched in stone and blood (Tevinter: Dumat corrupted, risen, setting aflame the temple market; Alamarri: give the stone your screams); in papers (a harrowing: a great cat would pounce: _a splinter of fear, a seed of doubt, and I would be unmade_ ); in red lyrium ( _we have found the dreams again; we will awaken_ ). She’d fixed a broken window to retrieve… not a magister’s amulet as somehow she’d expected, but a ring of sundering. She’d looked at templar statues still on guard.

“They still remember when they were higher,” Cole had said, “before it woke up and everything fell.”

She’d stood on the banks of a great ocean, felt it swell with memories; wondered if it had a tide. A longboat sat some way out to sea, calm and proud.

She’d found tombstones listing her companions’ own worst fears. A red-backed crow perched nearby.

She’d listened to the Nightmare’s ranting: _Your every fear has come to life. I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself; the demon army are all bound through me_.

“You must get through the rift, Inquisitor, and slam it shut with all your strength,” said Justinia. “That will banish the army of demons… and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.”

And now they faced the Nightmare. For a moment she was too terrified to move. It was… had taken the form of… a giant spider, larger than Corypheus’ dragon. Eight massive legs, the eyes, the maw…

Justinia flew towards it, a beacon of pure light that exploded, forcing it away for now. Virla shivered.

It left an avatar, an Aspect of the Nightmare: five-footed, two-armed, six-pronged, an emissary of fear. They fought it in a lair, surrounded by four huge statues pouring blood: the wasps again, with jars raised high. A skeleton was sunk in each such stalk, a withered corpse of what? Was it their blood that poured forever? Cole broke a jar of bees upon the spiders as they swarmed. Her mind unravelled: she’d used blood lotus and witherstalk to make those jars last longer. Blood and stalks, the blood that stalks, the stalking blood, the blood that talks, talks in your dreams, you’d scream and scream…

Solas’ barrier held her and she breathed. _Indomitable focus, Virla._ _Fight the demons. Close your mind._

  
  
  



	15. Felandaris blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felandaris, elven for “demon weed”, grows only where the Veil is thin. It bears some resemblance to a skeletal hand, perhaps the dead hand of fate?

**Val Firmin:** Two nights after the Nightmare. Virla couldn’t sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw it, through blood and poison-mist: its dripping maw, its sharp and slimy legs, its many eyes, waiting for her to stumble. And Alistair Theirin’s fading voice: _Good luck. I’ll keep it off you. For the Wardens!_

The choice. To sacrifice a bastard prince, a noble champion? She would have sooner given herself, except that she remembered Redcliffe: _without you they cannot close the rifts and all the world will die_. It had felt as if some other woman’s voice had spoken through her: _Alistair…_

She’d been the last out of the Fade, except for him: she thought she saw him fall, but couldn’t stay to check: the Nightmare blocked her view. Fear rained down like poison in her mind.

Once through, only one thing mattered: to focus on the rift, and force it shut. The demons shrank to nothing all around her, and she felt the Nightmare pushed back, far away. Fear was banished.

And in that moment, she’d seen something else: a fog; a flicker of another world, another woman.

****

 **Montsimmard:** Three days later. Virla had decided to lodge an extra night to communicate the news of the Wardens’ exile to their allies in the city. Cassandra would leave them at midday to ride on ahead to Skyhold. Bull would meet them on the way. The Chargers had been left as defence for Skyhold while the main force rode to Adamant; and now they would be heading west to make the fortress safe.

Another night of comfortable beds; a bath; a decent meal. Their Orlesian hosts had heard the news of the defeat of the demon army. The Herald of Andraste (so beautiful, so blessed, so chic!) could command any luxury she wanted… except the luxury of peaceful sleep.

They were sitting in a garden, eating breakfast: bread and ham and wine and frilly cakes. The scent of roses filled the air. Virla felt it all unreal, as if she stood beyond the wall and watched from far away.

“Solas, could Corypheus’ dragon truly be an Archdemon?” asked Cassandra. “How does he control it?”

“One assumes that if it were, we would be facing another Blight. It is connected to Corypheus. Such a relation goes beyond mere control: it is a bond.”

“It makes you wonder if that’s all the Archdemons themselves are: pets to beings who no longer exist.”

“I would not go so far as that. This dragon is a replica spawned from a creature who _aspires_ to greatness, no more.”

Solas picked up the plate of frilly cakes and offered it to Virla. “Try them, they’re delicious.”

She shook her head. _A replica._ Last night she’d dreamt she’d hammered at his silver shield: Solas, let me in! It had taken her too long to recognise the demon of the dream, a demon of despair. She knew that she should tell him, ask him for advice. She couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t meet his gaze, but knew his eyes were on her, the plate held out, still waiting. Another woman’s hand reached out and took a cake. Another woman ate it. It turned to dust in Virla’s mouth.

****

 **Verchiel:** An evening. They were camping in a forest not yet touched by civil war. Verchiel was Duke Gaspard’s. This road led to Halamshiral, once the elven capital, now held by Celene, Empress of Orlais. Her portrait could be found all over Val Royeaux: slim and blonde and beautiful. And smart. Virla read reports from Josephine: Celene who purged the elven alienage in Halamshiral; Celene who seeks to let elves into the University of Orlais; Celene who keeps her elven servants; Celene who had an elven lover…

Nearly time to sleep and fight, or stay awake and shiver. Cole got up and slipped into the tent. It just left her and Solas round the fire: the first time that they’d been alone together since… since when? He was leafing through a book. Virla was just about to ask Solas what he thought of Ambassador Briala, Celene’s former lover, when she read the title of his book: _Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against_.

She winced, and he looked up, cool and distant. “What is it, Inquisitor?”

As if… as if… no, she meant nothing to him. A tool to heal the Breach. A frilly cake. Gods knew.

Another woman smiled, and said _goodnight_. She turned and went into her tent, alone.

That night she hit at memory of his shield again, its surface an unshattered mirror. In it she saw herself a demon of desire: gold necklace against lilac skin; gold tassels on her naked breasts; a sash tied loosely. Horns twisted from her copper hair. She drew her spirit sword to strike the mirror of despair; it broke. He came to her, desire: _‘ma lath, ‘ma sa’lath…_ Such joy. And then she had to kill it too.

****

 **Sahrnia:** A day. Cole had tried to help her: _without you far more people would have died. The Wardens had to go._ The further they got from Adamant the happier he was. _Your head. So many tangles. Knots._ He’d somehow found a hairbrush and let her teach him how to use it on them both, how to braid her hair. _We both know that the knots are on the inside_ , had thought Virla. But it had helped, a bit.

Then Bull arrived. She hadn’t seen him since they’d last departed Skyhold: sombre on the battlements, cheating the Qunari assassins’ death with an antidote to their expected poison. And though he covered it well, he was still burnt by his defection from the Qun. Their party was less silent with him here.

They were clearing out Valeska’s Watch when Bull spoke. “So Cole, you're a spirit...demon...thing?”

“Yes. And you're The Iron Bull, afraid of demons.”

“Not fond of 'em, no. But you and I are fine as long as you don't do any weird crap.”

“Lying awake, sheets soaked in sweat, afraid to call the tamassrans. Shadows make shapes in the dark. If it gets in my head, how do I cut it out? Itching, shaking, tears slide cold down my cheeks. “Tama, I'm scared.”” Cole stabbed at hurlocks, speaking fast in whispers like his daggers.

Bull shivered. “Yeah, weird crap like that? Pretty much what I meant.”

Virla was retrieving Warden artefacts for Blackwall when Cole spoke again. ““Tama, how will I follow the Qun?” Her hands, strong but gentle, ruffle stubs where the horns will be. “You are strong, and your mind is sharp. You will solve problems others cannot.” She smiles, but sadly.”

 **“** Looks like my old Tamassran was wrong. Bet she's pissed one of her kids went Tal-Vashoth.”

 **“** Agents with hushed tones. Eyes stinging. Forms to fill out, course corrections. Reduce risk of similar losses. I remember the little boy, too wise, eager to help. Words break in small, secret spaces. He got away. _He got away._ ”

 **“** How could you know that? You've never even met her.” Bull was staring down at Cole, perplexed.

 **“** Your hurt touches hers.”

 **“** Well, that's…” He paused to clean his blade on a cloth. “…creepy, but... thanks.”

“You are not Tal-Vashoth, Iron Bull, not really,” said Solas, surprising Virla: he rarely spoke these days.

“Well that's a fuckin’ relief,” said Bull, turning to glare at him.

Solas calmly met his gaze. “You are no beast, snapping under the stress of the Qun's harsh discipline. You are a man who made a choice... possibly the first of your life.”

“I've always liked fighting. What if I turn savage, like the other Tal-Vashoth?”

“You have the Inquisition, you have the Inquisitor... and you have me.”

Bull paused at the top of a staircase leading down. “Thanks, Solas.” He put back on his mask of Dread.

****

 **Drakon’s Rise:** Later that afternoon. Virla felt better for having achieved something: ensuring no darkspawn could enter in through the now-abandoned Warden fort. The Emprise had its own unearthly beauty: a symphony of red and white and blue, of fire and ice. She’d ordered the Inquisition troops to arrange repair for the bridge across the valley: could they see it from the side before they crossed it on their way back east to Skyhold? Over Judicael’s Crossing to the Pools of the Sun: hot springs encased in ice, according to the soldiers, still held by behemoths and demons. They’d have to fight through them all tomorrow. Poetry and danger held entwined, like dragons flying overhead.

“I’d take a hot spring over any frozen view right now,” said Bull. The fighting had been hard; Cole’s arms were bleeding and Solas seemed exhausted too. She suddenly remembered an old trick she’d learnt from the mages of her clan: melt ice and snow above an overhang; create a heated waterfall.

A suitable overhang was not hard to find: the rocks had many natural caves and tunnels. She sat with Cole and focused on the fire runes. The intensity had to be just right for this to work. The water began to steam – _just perfect –_ and she grinned, feeling more alive than she had done in a week.

Bull took a shower, bantering with Cole and Solas about clothes and dancing girls. It was good to hear them happy, not grumbling about the lyrium or darkspawn. Then Cole turned to her. “Solas likes dancing. He imagines you in a purple silk dress at Halamshiral, dancing with him in the snow. Melting.”

Bull chuckled, and suddenly she felt – _his hurt touches mine_ – a sharp pulse of embarrassment.

“Cole, I think Solas would like you to stop,” she said, although her heart said: _No, go on!_

The pulse was smothered, but her heart beat faster. _Could this mean that he still wants me?_ He’d not given any sign for weeks, nothing since the night they’d found Fen’sulevin. Purple meant desire.

****

 **Skyhold:** They had an invitation to a ball, at which her advisors suspected that the Empress’ life would be endangered. Warnings had been intercepted. Vivienne and Josephine were teaching her the rules: manners, dances, courtesies and masks. She pored over a map of Halamshiral; its alienage; its Winter Palace. Vivienne was pleased by her aptitude for study and deigned to compliment her on her choice to be a knight-enchanter. _I’m pleased you approve of my choice. / You have your moments, my dear._

But from Solas, nothing. She wore purple dresses in her dreams: amethyst or lilac, violet or magenta; but never saw him. There were no demons either though. Did something in this castle’s ancient magic protect her from them here? She’d asked Banon for more history of Skyhold, read through reports as light relief from Orlesian politics. _Elves visited again and again… clays from different nations… styles from different centuries… no record of a ruin… the Veil is old…_ She asked them to find an archivist from the University of Orlais, or others who could help them catalogue this place. _How had he known of it?_

They’d found an elven poem, scratched underneath a pillar. Incomplete. Old but after the floor had been constructed over _what the elves had wished to see… whatever natural spire_

> _Var’landivalis him sa’bellanaris san elgar_  
>  _Melanada him sa’miras fena’taldin_ [word missing]  
>  _Nadasalin telrevas ne suli telsethenera_  
>  _Tarasyl’an te’las vehn’ir abelath’vir_ [word missing].

Virla told them to ask Solas for a translation, and privately began her own attempt. She had got as far as _Our belief became one eternity of spirit…_ when Leliana came in, holding an opened letter. It was from Neria, First to Clan Ralaferin. She’d thought she’d met the woman once, at the last Arlathvhen, while still a child; but held no memory of her face. She read the letter out, though Leliana had read it.

> “ _The Sulevin Blade is said to be one of the finest weapons ever crafted… during the Exalted March on the Dales, a band of elves used the sword to spill innocent blood. They hoped to power magic to use against their enemies. Instead, they were punished for their savagery. Spirits reached beyond the Veil and struck them down. As for the blade, to this day it lies broken on the cursed land. None may touch it without meeting the same fate as those elves. The sword is real, that I know…”_

“She said to our scribe _some memories are best left buried_ ,” said Leliana. “But we have the location.”

“When our people ruled the Dales, its purpose was to protect the innocent,” said Virla. “It would be a symbol of hope for elves across Orlais if we could mend it, take it to Halamshiral. Do we have time?”

****

 **Cradle of Sulevin, southern Dales:** They had had time. Solas had been reluctant, cautioning her against the trip. Did he worry for her safety? She had ignored him: _if you won’t commit to me, or trust me with your secrets, you’ve no right to be protective. Don’t you want our history restored?_

The temple was like so many she had seen: a shattered roof; the trees entwined round pillars. There were altars – just like those in Dirthamen’s lost temple. She sought a veilfire brazier; lit the flame and used it to read timeworn writing on the upper floor:

> _This was once a sacred place… the veil was thin, Othren knew the rite… what fell spirit whispered in his ear? Four cried as our own would cry. The blade cut each throat and they were silent. Human blood taken, as elven blood had been._ _I let the spirits take the bodies… let the others fall… sealed them… I, Hedolen, declare that we were wrong._

Four altars, then. The first one had the sword guard; the second had the pommel. Each altar spawned a revenant: the ancient humans’ corpses now possessed by pride. And other corpses. Weak to fire and flame. The third one stood beside a chasm in the floor: Virla looked in horror as Cole took an arrow to his leg and fell within. He called: _it’s fine!_ No time to look; the fighting was harder than she’d thought. She tried to stay at range: revenants cast an aura of weakness immediately around them. But it was smart, and sought to pull her in. She span and danced… _immolate, fire mine_ … felt the spikes hit Solas’ barrier around her; ducked and ran away again. Finally it died. She retrieved a hilt.

They were all breathing hard, and yet: _just one part left._ They found the stairs that led down, found Cole, found ancient elven graves with stone egg carvings on the tombstones. She lit a veilfire brazier and a ring of other braziers caught alight. The final altar stood illumined.

It was only after Virla had lit the flame, the revenant had spawned, a ring of corpses stood around them, that she saw Solas’ face. He was shaking, white, unfocused; raining fire down, his hands as white as felandaris plucked from frozen ground in the Emprise. She cast a barrier to protect them, tried to keep the corpses off, drained herself completely dry of mana; felt the pull and saw the sword raised high. She jumped aside, just as Solas leapt in front of her.

The sword went through his chest.

She cried “Solas!” as he fell. He lay bleeding and unconscious, another seeming corpse among the skeletons. She couldn’t get to him; too many corpses. The others didn’t notice it at first, but then Cole turned; helped her clear a path. Frantic, she pulsed magic at his chest.

But his skin was grey; his eyes stayed closed.

  
  



	16. Felicidus aria, classical variation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Felicidus aria_ is better known as the Silent Plains rose: the only plant that grows on the blighted land where Dumat, Archdemon of the First Blight, was finally killed. Is the ambrosia distilled from roots of the plant linked to the potion of water, honey and herbs used to keep elvhen mages alive in _uthenera_?

Tears ran down Virla’s face as she followed Bull up the ancient staircase and out of the Sanctuary of the Dead. She’d stopped the bleeding with magic, thrown her arms around his body, whispered _ar lath ma_ in his ear, and cried, but Solas hadn’t returned to consciousness. He lay, limp and grey, in the huge warrior’s arms. All she could see, over and over, was the revenant’s sword running through his chest.

Cole had retrieved the final piece of the sword, and told her again: “He’s not dead. I would know.”

She held the great door open as Bull carried Solas out. They laid him on the grass a little way from the ruins, in a clearing where they would have warning if any wolves or poison spiders ventured near.

“It’s faint, but his heart’s beating,” said Bull, his hand at Solas’ neck to feel the pulse. “And he’s breathing all right. The nearest camp’s not far. Let me take him on my mount.”

****

It was the camp in the Emerald Graves where she’d read the poem of Ser Brandis, the Silver Helm: the watching figures all around, the statue guardian wolf, the officer from Denerim. Bull was arranging a cart to take them back to Skyhold. Cole sat with Virla in the tent. Somewhere a bird was singing.

She was holding Solas’ hand, and had been for an hour. And then she felt it: a faint tremor in the Veil.

“Did you feel that?” she asked Cole, squeezing Solas’ hand as if to repeat the question to him by touch.

“It’s singing, somewhere.” He paused, listening; whispered: “He wants you to take him in the Fade.”

And so she lay down beside the man she loved; took a deep breath to calm her focus. She could not afford to be caught out by despair or fear, by rage or desire or pride. She walked into the Fade, alone.

****

Haven, before the avalanche. Lake Luthias. Villa Maurel. A ship just setting sail from Jader. Memories of Skyhold, Val Royeaux, Val Firmin, Montsimmard. Memories of wolves: white and shy, or black and angry. The smell of herbs, of elfroot, lotus, embrium. The symbols in the fresco. An oasis in the west.

She tried a different tack: looked in herself, dug deep in her desires to find her love for him. Tried to ignite it with the Anchor’s flame. Prayed to each god in turn: Elgar’nan who grieved for loss; Mythal for love; Sylaise for healing; Andruil for the hunt; Falon’Din for luck, for hopeless causes; Ghilan’nain and Dirthamen for guidance through the Fade; June and Fen’Harel for a clever tool or plan to save him.

Nothing and no-one answered. Only demons. Her mind was fogged with exhaustion.

And then she remembered another fog, another woman.

“Caritas?” she whispered.

The glade she had been standing in began to fade; a fog rolled in, then drifted off. And in its place there stood a gilded mirror, three times her height, its surface rippling waves of indigo and silver. An eluvian like those she’d seen in Nightmare’s realm, but whole. She felt a moment’s fear, then focused and stepped through.

****

Virla stood, uncertain, in the middle of a room. There were chairs, a divan, a low table; a circular disc that hung from the ceiling and pushed the air around. Music played, like the rhythm of her dreams but amplified, a quick triplet followed by a slow double: one-two-three four five, one-two-three four five. The singing came from many voices. _Siehe, ein Ackermann wartet auf die köstliche Frucht der Erde und is geduldig darüber, bis er empfahe den Morgenregen und Abendregen._

A voice spoke from behind her. “Virla. Please, sit down. You are welcome here, and safe.”

She spun around. A woman stood at the only entrance to the room. Not a demon. Possibly a spirit. Elf or human? Her long hair hid her ears. _Like in every picture of Andraste_ , Virla thought.

“Are you Caritas?” she said. “I remember we met before, after I’d been poisoned. On a beach.”

“That's right. You need to find Solas after he was injured at the Cradle of Sulevin.”

“How do you know that? Are you a spirit? Is this another place between? It's not the Fade.”

“We’re in your mind. I've been with you since you woke up in the cell, brought here by the Anchor. I saw you in that future Redcliffe, was with you when you kissed Solas in the Fade at Haven, guided you at Adamant, past the Nightmare. As with Justinia, all answers lie in you for what I am to you.”

Virla nodded: that at least was quite familiar. “What is that singing? I don’t know the language.”

“It’s a song of hope, of rain to heal the earth: the harvester waits patiently for the fruit of the earth, until he has the morning and the evening rains. For you, the music’s in your mind, accessed through your Dreamer's magic. For me, it's another function of the artifice I use to reach to you.”

“You can't do magic?” Virla's shoulders slumped. How could this woman help her reach him?

“I can do some. I could turn back time, to before Solas was injured. You'd need to make a vow that you would not tell anyone of anything you did remember. Or I can help you find him now.”

Virla looked at Caritas. “The last time I encountered time magic... was not a good experience. As you must know if you saw me in Redcliffe. If I find him now, will he be well?”

Caritas nodded, pleased. “It may take some time, but he'll recover. So here's what you should do. You need to use the Anchor to create a single point of focus, a single point of silver veilfire light. Connect it in your heart to Solas. I can do the rest.”

She stretched out her hand, began to focus. A question formed. “But how can you do magic?”

The voice was fading. “Mathematics is a universal language. You just need the axiom of choice.”

****

The veilfire expanded as she watched, consuming her, the chair, the room. She felt another presence; a scent of spindleweed, black lotus; the sound of huge waves rolling. She was deep beneath the earth again. The temperature was dropping fast, like Sahrnia when the river froze. Was he somewhere here?

“Solas?” she called, and suddenly she saw him: lying on a rock encased in frost. She ran to him, knelt down and wrapped her arms around him, pressed kisses on his frozen lips. No-one could see them here. The music continued: _Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit; aber ich will euch wieder sehen und euer Herz soll sich freuen._ It sounded like her voice. She wiped away the frost.

****

His eyes had flickered just enough for her to know that he was still alive, responding however slightly to her touch. She’d gone back to the Emerald Graves to let Cole know, and found that she was travelling in a cart, her head resting in a mound of hay. Solas lay beside her, cold and grey.

“Sorry, Boss, but I thought that you would want to get going back to Skyhold.”

“Thank you, Bull. I found him in the Fade… it took a while.”

****

Three days later, he had not awoken. She’d put him in her bed, had tried the surgeon, Vivienne, Cole, Dorian, Cassandra… even Varric to read tales. No-one’s healing worked. She’d gone back to the sunken sunless sea where she had found him; he was no longer there. Was that a good thing?

She tried Fiona, realised with horror she was grieving over Alistair. “Think she was his mother?” Leliana said. “Someone must have bedded Maric, and the dates would work out right. Deep Roads, hmm?”

She tried Dagna, still in ecstasies for particles of rift. “Lyrium and the Fade, linked. But dwarves and tranquil, not linked. But they work lyrium so they are, somehow… I thought all the thoughts. I was the mountain. Moving. Dizzy. The Shaperate carved a wall of memory, but big. Maybe that’s what the Stone feels like, if we think it feels… a headache. And cocoa. And a lie-down.” Nothing to help Solas.

She tried Caritas again, but there was no reply. Did Skyhold’s magic bar her presence too?

They told her that the ball was in a week; she didn’t care. _Dorian can come instead of Solas. I don’t mind what we wear. Just arrange it, Josephine, please. We’ll save the Empress, come straight back._

And so she slept, in fits and starts, on the divan. _This was my fault. I should have turned back time._

****

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan sat on the Inquisitor’s throne. The crowd was on her side, no need to posture to get their attention. First up was Crassius Servis, a mage from the Circle in Minrathous, not himself a Venatori. He’d already tried to play both sides, so she recruited him to work with Varric as a smuggler.

Then a Warden called Ser Ruth: she could not live with her actions abetting the blood sacrifices, so Virla exiled her to the Deep Roads, to seek penance killing darkspawn. A pang of conscience smote her: would Solas have approved? She made a note to have an escort go, recover her body for the Chantry.

And last, the one they’d waited for: Magister Livius Erimond, the Elder One’s deceiver who had caused the deaths of countless Wardens. Even Cole thought him an arsehole. He had to die. But execution differed from a death in battle. The crowd trooped outside to watch her raise the Inquisition’s sword and strike him down. Her mind was on another sword, another man. The wait was exhausting; she felt sickened by the posturing, let alone the act itself. As soon as it was over, she made for her room.

Solas lay there, still.

She lay on the divan and wept.

****

Virla was sleeping, lost in the twilight. She imagined an elf-knight come to her side. He laid a sprig of crystal grace by her, knelt down to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Inquisitor?” His voice sounded both faraway and delightfully close. She opened her eyes. It looked like Solas; this was her bedchamber. _But I thought demons couldn’t find me here?_

“Solas?” She blinked and tried to focus. Yes, this was the Fade. Was it really him?

The voice was gentle, tender. “I’m here, _lethallin_. Thank you for saving an old fool.”

Virla winced and briefly closed her eyes. The tenderness undid her. If a demon could pretend this well, why not just give in? What would she say if it were really Solas? She lay on her divan, covered by her favourite Dalish fur: a great bear hide brought back from the Dales. She sat up, pulled it round her.

“If there’s a fool here, it’s me. I have pushed you all too hard these last two months. You told me not to go to Sulevin, but I didn’t listen. And then you nearly died. Again.”

“I would die for you again, Inquisitor, if it were required. But I would rather live.”

He reached up and placed his hands on her shoulders, stroking the fur. She melted in his aura. “You have been more patient with me than I had any right to expect. I am yours, if you will have me.”

And suddenly she knew for sure that it was really him, and that he had at last made a decision.

Virla saw he knew her answer from his eyes. She barely needed to whisper: “As I am yours.”

She felt tears pour down her cheeks from sheer relief, and sobbed into his chest. His arms held her close; his fingers, tentative at first, then firmer, stroked her hair, her ears, wiped the tears away. He didn’t know what she had been through, but he didn’t need to. He was here, that was enough for now.

After a while, she raised her head to look at him, a hand pressed to his heart. “Is it very painful?”

“My chest?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you know, but the revenant’s sword went right through you. I keep seeing it in my dreams. You hit the ground, and I couldn’t get to you at first. Eventually Cole got the corpses off me long enough for me to get the magic wrapped around your chest. You had lost so much blood, I was terrified you were gone.”

She shuddered; felt some peaceful magic pulse through her from his aura; the scent of elfroot. He pulled her close again so that her head was tucked under his chin; a light kiss dropped upon her hair.

“I will recover. Besides, don’t you remember I want to see you dancing at Halamshiral?”

“No, Solas! You need to rest. I have arranged that Dorian will come instead.”

“What do I need to do to prove to you that I am well enough to travel?”

Was that a snarl of jealousy? She hadn’t meant it in that way. And then she realised she had scarcely thought at all about Halamshiral or what they faced there. Her whole focus had been him, since they’d returned to Skyhold. She looked up at him, surprised.

And then was even more surprised when he pressed his lips to hers. For a moment she stiffened in his arms, an unconscious reflex from the times she’d had to fight off demons with his eyes, his lips, his scent, his voice. She made herself relax: his kiss was undemanding, slow, his tongue a gentle pressure in her mouth. As if he guessed the tortures she had suffered just for wanting this, for wanting him.

She kissed him back, expecting him to draw away, to flinch or break into some lesson on the Fade. But no, he was caressing her, affection in his eyes, and wonder. What had she done to make him look that way? He picked her up and laid her on the bed, lying close beside her. Another breathless kiss. Another one. A fifth, a sixth. She felt as if she might lose count.

His hands caressed her back, and suddenly she felt her dishevelled, dirtied robes replaced with a long silk buttoned dress of palest lilac. It was surprisingly demure, as if… as if the fun were in undoing all the buttons? It wasn’t an Orlesian fashion, of that she was quite sure. And yes, he’d left her bindings tightly tied under the dress; and yes, she knew that _that_ had been a choice. She felt a sharp pulse of desire, the first intense one she had let herself enjoy for ages. From the look on his face as she pressed her body close to his she knew he knew that too. How much could he see into her mind?

Her eyes sparkled with half-forgotten mischief. “How did you do that? Aren’t we in my dream?”

Solas’ eyes twinkled in response, deliciously dark and warm. “You will take me to Halamshiral, _‘ma_ Virlath, won’t you?”

  
  
  



	17. King of royal elfroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is a healer too. Though only he knows how much it costs him at this point [behind the mask](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10702073).

Virla levered herself up on an elbow, the better to smile down at Solas, press another kiss upon his lips. It still felt unreal: a dream that could not possibly be coming true. To take him to Halamshiral, the ancient centre of the elven kingdom, explore its Fade together? Her heart was racing.

Then she frowned. “A few kisses and a bit of magic, and you think you'll get your way so easily? For all I know right now you cannot walk or hold a staff.”

He chuckled, tracing a line along the back of her ear from point to lobe and making her shiver with delight. “I am glad to see your indomitable focus still endures, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

She leaned back out of reach. “How do I know you're not a demon come to tempt me?”

“Is that a serious question?” His tone was tender, gentler than before.

Perhaps it had been. She looked away, not wanting to break down again. He took her hand in his, and ran his thumb along the Anchor. “ _Dirth ma_ , Virlath. Tell me how you know I'm not a demon.”

“You don't feel like one. Your aura is more complex somehow: multi-coloured, multi-layered. Shinier. There’s no static when you touch me, and no pain.”

“Multi-coloured? Like a fresco? Stained glass? Or a rainbow?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps all of those, or none. It's hard to explain. Sometimes, when I realise that my dream's created by a demon, I see a coloured mist, some kind of echo of their presence. Green means fear, red is rage, blue’s despair, and purple is... desire.”

Her voice faded away on the final word, and she smoothed out the lilac dress with her free hand.

He kept stroking her palm, his eyes upon the Anchor. “Yes, I know about the colours. It’s good that you can see the mist. Are you often fighting demons in your dreams?”

Virla nodded. “It’s got more frequent over time, and they are stronger. Now it's three or four.”

“Three or four per week?”

She shook her head, still staring unseeing towards the open balcony door; the mountains. His hand tightened on hers, painfully. “Per night? Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell Cassandra?”

“I couldn’t tell you. We have enough to handle. I found I could defeat the demons, keep on going.”

Solas released her hand, and got up off the bed. He walked slowly to the fireplace, then turned back to face her, brows drawn close together. “That’s why you flinched when I kissed you earlier.”

It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer.

“Will you let me help you now? I may have some… experience that can help you.”

She met his gaze at last, half-defiant. “A purple dress. What is the difference between desire and love? You walked into my dream. How do you know it’s me and not a demon in your mind?”

“The same way that you know, through perception. The colours and the texture of your aura. Demons don't tend to ask so many questions, nor resist my will so long. As for love not being like desire, the theory is easy: love has purpose for something that's beyond one's own pleasures. Desire is made cruel when it only sees itself, and not the wider world, the wider duties.”

“And in practice?”

He came to sit beside her on the bed, and brought her marked hand up to his lips. Placing a soft kiss on each fingertip in turn, he smiled. “You're not a demon. Lilac suits you.”

“Spoken like the artist that you are.”

“An artist can appreciate a muse. If you like, I can teach you what I know about desire and purpose.”

He waited for an answer. Virla could hear her own heart beating, skipping beats; wondered again what he could hear or sense inside her dream; could he hear her feelings like she’d once heard his?

“I would like that, Solas. There is so much I want to learn about the Fade.”

“You need to look inside yourself. The Fade is governed by emotion and intent. Will you let me show you what I can sense about you from your dream? It would be similar for spirits.”

Virla felt herself blushing, squeezed his hand. “ _Ma nuvenin._ Can you read my thoughts as well?”

“Not really, just emotions. It’s like reading a spirit’s purpose, but where they are a steady breeze, you’re a waterfall with whirlpools, currents, eddies. A shining rainbow instead of coloured mist.”

She laughed, surprised. “You’re making me sound beautiful.”

“You are,” he said, and kissed her once again: warmly, eagerly. His arms slipped around her waist, pressing her against his chest. The wolf jawbone he always wore pushed against her ribcage.

He drew away, looking amused, and gestured at her dress. “That is how you feel to me right now.”

Virla gasped: she’d not felt any magic. The dress was now deep purple velvet, shimmering with gold; the neckline deeper than before, the fabric richer, more alluring. _Kiss me again,_ she thought.

She must have thought it loud enough for him to feel, or maybe he could not resist, because he laughed and pulled her closer. His lips found hers again, this time slow and gentle, almost shy. _I love you,_ Virla thought. _Even though I know that you are hiding something from me, we belong together._

When eventually she opened her eyes again, her dress was purest white.

It seemed to take him by surprise, as if such proof of love was something wholly unexpected. His eyes widened, dark and blue, and she knew he could not speak. In his eyes she read _I love you and my heart is yours,_ but also something terrified and lost: a wolf about to flee.

Her eyes fell to the jawbone round his neck, and she slipped a hand behind to hold it, feel its weight. She wondered what it meant to him, and whether he had chosen it, or someone else. She felt him waiting, watching her intently. Firelight glinted off the jawbone as she turned it in her hand.

Suddenly she shuddered. The glint was like the sunlight on the sword she’d used to strike off Erimond’s head, reflections from his armour; the white velvet of her dress like the ruff that stood around his severed neck. She saw the revenant’s sword going into Solas’ chest; saw him lying frozen.

Her dress began to stain pale green, dark blue; she looked at him in horror.

A pulse of magic from him stopped the spell that charmed her clothes; she quickly turned them from the bloody robes she had been wearing to something clean and simple, something beige.

Solas extracted the jawbone from where she clutched it in her hand, took her hands in his instead. Their warmth was reassuring. “What was that, Virlath?”

“I executed Erimond today. I’ve never killed a man outside of battle. It was terrible to have to do it.”

He held her as she told him how she’d felt; wiped her tears away again; just listened as the words poured out; nodded reassurance.

“Sometimes terrible decisions must be made, and necessary actions carried out. It is not appropriate to celebrate violence, even in battle, but it may be that justice demands death even out of it. You gave the crowd the hope they needed; and the Wardens are exiled for their part in all this folly.”

“The healer has the bloodiest hands?”

He nodded. “The strength you bring in your desires is also strength that you can bring to purpose: the Inquisition’s symbol is a sword. There will be a time when you can put that sword away.”

She laid her head against his shoulder. They’d never had this long a conversation; it was like finding land after swimming in the sea all afternoon: solid ground beneath her feet, a chance to breathe.

“I spoke to Blackwall about what went on at Adamant. He said that someone had described it as _a guardian on the edge of the abyss, the lone soul that stares into oblivion and doesn’t waver._ He said that all a Warden is, is a promise to protect others, even at the cost of your own life.”

“Why did you let him stay?” His tone was neutral, curious.

“He never left us. Perhaps he never heard the Calling; perhaps he didn’t heed it. I expect he’s hiding something: many people are. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

Virla felt him stiffen, almost imperceptibly. _Good, that hit home._ It was strange to think that he could feel her emotions. It began to make more sense that he had had _considerations_ … if the only friends he’d had for quite some time had been spirits, this kind of interaction might be overwhelming. She wondered what hue her robes would be, if the spell remained.

Time to move things on. She drew his head down to kiss him, matching the gentleness he’d showed before. “I would like you to come to the Winter Palace, Solas, but are you well enough to come?”

He frowned. “I don’t want to worry you. Perhaps we should seek the advice of another healer.”

“How about Enchanter Vivienne? She would be objective.”

“I will have to be on my best behaviour then,” said Solas, sighing.

But something more triumphant had flickered briefly in his eyes, and so she added: “And you need to paint the fifth _sa'vunin_ too. The one for Adamant you planned. That will test your stamina.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor.”

She smiled. “And I would like to watch you paint.”

When they woke up from the Fade (Solas first; she gave him a few minutes to compose himself), she was startled by how pale and stiff he was. Skyhold’s surgeon had come up for her daily visit.

“Have you heard of the new treatments coming out of Orlais? A hole drilled into the skull will cure most ailments. Imagine, not to be dependent on magic!”

His face was hidden from her as the surgeon checked his ribs, but she guessed that, somewhere behind his mask, he was smiling.

****

Virla lay encircled in Solas' arms, her head upon his chest. Listening to his heart. They were in the Fade again: he'd said he would recover faster if he joined her in her dreams at nights. In reality she lay in her bed, and he was in his own chamber in another wing of Skyhold. Here they were together.

She smiled, remembering how he'd knocked at the door of her bedchamber, and waited. She'd donned a lilac gown, and stood atop the stairs, called _Come in!_ As if it were the real Skyhold. She'd watched him climb until he stood in front of her, taller than expected. He carried a box in his hands.

She'd laughed. “Is that a chess set?”

He had nodded, placing it unopened on a table that had suddenly appeared, inlaid with a board. “I know you play. Bull told me you'd been discussing our game with him before we got to Sulevin. I wanted to see how good you really were.”

“Next you'll be instructing me in ancient Elvish,” she teased.

A string of lyrical words escaped his lips, of which she caught only a few: _elvarel, elgar, halani_. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he smirked.

“I told you that it would be a pleasure to help such a beautiful and brilliant spirit speak the words of old; but that you would have to earn it with a kiss.”

It had not been too high a price to pay. She loved how he looked younger when he bent to kiss her; no ancient tongue but vibrant, living. It pushed away the sadness that he only spoke of in the way he wrapped his arms around her. As if she were the sands of time that slipped between his fingers.

But that, she understood. Life was precious. This love of theirs within a war could only live in stolen moments. Perhaps if she were patient he might tell her plainly of his secrets: what betrayal tortured him; where his duty lay; why he’d never let her in his dreams. Until then she would enjoy these gifts of moments; wait and simply listen to his heart.

****

And in the days

> _…devouring Orlesian history: Jeshavis, Xavier Drakon, Alphonse Valmont and his younger brothers…_
> 
> _…wondering whether Briala still had feelings for Celene, or vice versa, and what Gaspard was like…_
> 
> _…saw him paint the Adamant sa’vunin: the fortress silhouette, the roundel for the Fade…_
> 
> _…endured the smiles and smirks that flooded Skyhold with the gossip: the Inquisitor looks happy…_
> 
> _…watched Cassandra writing her first-hand account of the Fade, worried that it might be twisted…_

And in the nights?

> _…winning her first game of chess, then laughing as he tried to pretend he had allowed it…_
> 
> _…sounding out the syllables of ancient whispers: vir am’tela’elvahen, tel’enera, ir san’shiral…_
> 
> _…learning to conjure replicas of flowers: you are the queen of crystal grace, he whispered…_
> 
> _…trying to persuade him she was worthy to be trusted, that she could walk softly in his dreams…_
> 
> _…enjoying the permissions that he gave her: to stroke his face, to hold his jawbone, kiss his lips…_

****

Virla knew that it was not symmetric: he loved her, but he still resisted. Slowly, patiently, she tried to coax him into openness: listening both to what he told her of the Fade and of his friendships, and what he never mentioned, or evaded.

Vivienne had commented on her improved appearance. “Is it my imagination, dear, or have certain… lingering looks passed between you and our Solas? I don’t know what to make of him. So much knowledge and so little personal history… but then, perhaps he suits you well enough, my dear.”

She smiled: it was all preparation for the Game. A gossamer elfroot? He had made her royal.

  
  



	18. Queen of crystal grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may be the best point for a reminder that the queen is the most powerful piece in chess, and that the king moves but one square at a time. The Orlesian lady whose pale blue crystal grace were enchanted to chime in the breeze eventually grew tired of the sound and set fire to her lawn in a fit of pique. This is a tale of belles and bells. Helene and Lennan are mentioned in _The Masked Empire_.

They arrived in the city close to sunset, the day before the ball. Virla rode Mi’nan through the gates of Halamshiral and up to the High Quarter (human), following Cullen and Leliana leading on their mounts. Behind her rode Solas and Cassandra, and then a carriage with the others: Dorian, Varric, Josephine and Vivienne inside; Cole on the seat beside the coachman. Other Inquisition soldiers would be camping somewhere outside of the city, then joining them tomorrow.

She’d strapped the Sulevin Blade re-forged by Dagna to her back, and where the elves they passed caught her gaze, she smiled. Inside she sighed for what was lost. Halamshiral meant: journey’s end. Founded by the elves who survived the long walk from Tevinter following Andraste’s death, for four hundred years this was the capital of the Dales. The Emerald Knights vowed that no humans would ever walk these lands. But elven Halamshiral had burned in the Exalted March seven centuries ago.

Last year it burned again: Empress Celene turning on the elven slums to quell a riot, preserve her power. And now an elf rode in to stop Celene’s assassination, lest Corypheus destroy Orlais. Ironic.

Perhaps Leliana had anticipated some of her more complex feelings about the mission, for she had arranged for them to stay two nights with Comtesse Helene Montclaire, whom she and Josephine had known from Val Royeaux. Vivienne approved the plan. It was consistent with their strategy to seek the favour of the more progressive noble families within Orlais. The Comtesse had been instrumental through Celene in persuading the University of Orlais to admit elves as students.

****

Vivienne lounged within a high-backed chair before the fire in the bedroom, a glass of brandy poised before her lips. Virla stood before her, wincing as the elven servant Nira tightened the corset round her waist. Tonight she would be dressed in full Orlesian fashion. It was too late to wonder why, too impolite to demur after Josephine had gone to so much trouble to prepare the outfit. She stroked its silken nap and thought about the colours. The heavy overskirt was white, layered over a pale blue underskirt that matched the satin bodice trimmed with silver coins. There was a lacy silver mask to match it, and silver shoes below the skirt. She’d never worn anything like it, even in the Fade.

With encouragement from Nira, Virla put the mask on across her eyes, and let the woman pin blue silken cloth around her hair. They had some difficulty with her ears: the points prevented the silk from lying flat, until they tried a different style with folds that hid them.

She was glad that Cullen and Cassandra had insisted that they should wear armour at the ball, long enough that they had compromised on dress uniforms. In this she might not stand out from an Orlesian crowd, but it hardly aided movement in a crisis. But tonight she would be beautiful: petite not short; a woman, not a soldier. She squinted down behind the mask: the dress was quite low cut, her dainty curves accentuated by the fitting and the corset, her lips outlined in palest rose.

“You will certainly get their attention, darling,” said Vivienne, sipping brandy.

****

The Comtesse sat at the head of the table, engaging Solas in a lengthy discussion about art and elven frescoes. Cullen sat at her right hand, with Virla between him and a man she’d just been introduced to: _Lennan studies mathematics at the University of Orlais; he was the first elf registered._ Josephine was on the other side of Lennan, gently talking to him of the sights of Val Royeaux. Across the table Vivienne and Dorian were bickering about Tevinter decadence and Orlesian fripperies. Virla used her silver knife to cut into the _escalope de lion rouge_ , and drained another glass of Rowan’s Rose.

She ought to talk to the Commander: he looked uncomfortable, as if fine Orlesian dining was just as strange to him as it was to her. If this was meant as preparation for the ball tomorrow, it was only serving to make her far more nervous. She was about to ask Cullen if his headache was improving – lyrium withdrawal was hard – when the Comtesse brought her conversation with Solas to an end and turned to him. Apparently this was a signal that everyone should converse with the person on their other hand, for Vivienne turned to talk to Solas, and Josephine to Varric.

The servant filled her glass again, and as she raised it to her lips she felt Solas’ gaze upon her. Like all of them he’d been provided with Orlesian dress: a silver silken shirt with sleeves puffed out above a dark blue doublet; tight-fitting teal breeches sunk into brown knee-length boots; a silken hat with feathers. He looked completely gorgeous in the candlelight, and strangely unfamiliar.

His eyes were dark with lust, quite unmistakable. She felt as if she could taste his aura even from across the table. Her hands were shaking. She realised she’d tipped a little wine down her bodice.

“Here, let me help you,” said Lennan, passing her a napkin. She turned and thanked him sweetly.

****

Virla had excused herself from the party after dinner, breathing fast. Why had she drunk so much? Outside her bedroom there was a window, looking out over Halamshiral. Her eyes traced the scars across the city where the fire had burned.

Then suddenly she felt him close behind her: Solas had escaped as well. His breath was hot upon her neck. _Go to bed_ , he whispered. She turned around, looked up into his eyes with wild longing.

“Won’t you come to mine?” she asked, and blushed that she had said it, even as a whisper.

For a heartbeat she thought he would; he was so close. But he quickly walked away. She ran into her bedroom and lay down upon the yellow covers, only pausing to remove her shoes and headdress. Today had started early with the ride from Skyhold. The wine would help her sleep as well.

****

Solas was knocking, requesting entrance, into her bedroom, inside the Fade. She ran to the door, bare-footed, still wearing the Orlesian clothing in her dream. Scarcely had she turned the handle when he wrapped her in his arms, bending her backwards just like he had in Haven: passionate, possessive. He had not changed his clothing either; her hands caressed the velvet of his doublet.

“On the bed,” he growled. “I can smell the wine you tipped upon yourself at dinner.”

They made it to the bed, and Virla glimpsed another bottle, opened, sitting on a table just beside them. Solas looked at it and chuckled, darkly.

“Halamshiral. And Rowan’s Rose. What better way to teach you about putting desire to purpose? Will you let me tip this on you, Virlath? May I untie your bodice?”

She nodded: excited, speechless, spellbound. Tonight he seemed another man from the ascetic apostate he normally presented: a prince of elves, someone comfortable with candlelight and shadows. He sat her on his lap. She watched his hands pull apart the laces of her corset, enough to allow his fingers to slip inside and stroke along the top sides of her breasts. His hand dipped deeper and she gasped with pleasure as his fingers began pulsing veilstrike. His other hand brought the bottle closer, slowly tipped a little down her front. He laid her on the pillows and began to lick it off.

****

She was distracted all that afternoon; she’d slept within his arms till lunchtime, topless and aroused. He’d not ventured to work lower, nor had she requested it: the slowness of it all seemed fitting, as if they were immortals in the days of Arlathan, with years to spend upon this courtship. Instead he had spent hours upon her neck and breasts, until the wine was finished: peppering her skin with kisses; stroking it with magic; drying it with silken cloth then wetting it again. She’d never felt so good.

Even the reports from Wycome – red lyrium in the wells, agreeing with the diplomat Guinevere Volant and Leliana that her clan should be asked to go into the city by the agent Jester – did not dispel excitement. Lord Enzo of Antiva was fled to Hercinia; Val Gamord was destroyed by darkspawn; Judge Auld had enjoyed his giant spider hunt into the caves west of Skyhold. Final briefings on the ball. None of it seemed realer than the memory of her lover in the Fade.

She decided she could be a match for any Empress, Duke or courtier. An elven mage Inquisitor, a Dreamer Herald of Andraste: she’d walked beneath the world and seen the stars.

****

Solas helped her into the carriage, his hand clasping hers around the leather glove. The scarlet uniform (command) was fitted to perfection: a blue silk sash around her hips, across her chest; a golden belt tied tightly round her waist; brown trousers slid into riding boots. She wore no mask or veil to hide her face or ears: she’d look the naïve Dalish they expected, and confound them all.

Primed to flirt, she whispered as she passed him, “I’m sorry about the purple dress.”

Stepping up, she looked back down at him. He wore the uniform as well, a silver helm… and in his eyes the same dark look of longing that had caused her to spill the wine before. She licked her lips.

****

And at the ball, the flirting came in useful. They were the guests of Grand Duke Gaspard, Celene’s cousin and her rival for the throne. He came to meet her, drenched in musky scent and dressed in armour and a polished silver mask. She had to remind herself that he was sixty-seven: he moved like a man full in his prime; his close-cut hair and stubble dark, no signs of grey. But then all of the Valmonts were strange. She’d wondered if they had some secret elven heritage, when she’d read the _Architectural History of Orlais_ : the family seemed obsessed with elves. And certainly Gaspard’s gaze had lingered on her ears a shade too long for one who surely was aware of who she was.

“It is a great pleasure to meet with you, Inquisitor Lavellan. The rumours coming out of the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!”

“And which one _was_ the rightful one, again? I keep getting them confused.”

“The handsome, charming one of course, my lady.” He bowed to her and chuckled.

The general’s scent was overpowering, clashing with the flowers: not a man familiar with seduction. That he was even attempting charm was... interesting. Perhaps he simply wanted to unsettle her, or introduce another element to unbalance the situation. He’d win an outright war with Celene.

“I am not a man who forgets his friends. You help me, I’ll help you.” He turned and walked away, extending an arm for her to follow him “My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper? They will be telling stories of this into the next age.”

 _Naïve and sweet._ “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Duke Gaspard. I look forward to ending this civil war.”

****

Josephine was nervous: _every gesture’s evaluated for weakness; take your own advice,_ thought Virla. Cullen and Cassandra were ill at ease, like Gaspard: warriors in a world of masks and rogues, despite their noble backgrounds. The whispers: _Why so many elves? The Empress invited them. Be polite._

Virla sent up prayers to Andruil that the hunt for the assassin might prove fruitful, to Mythal for accuracy in judging, to Sylaise that she might charm them all. Lithe and graceful, she’d always enjoyed dancing with her clanmates, and learning the Orlesian dances had been easy. As she bowed and walked towards the Empress’ throne she let her hips sway gently, thinking of Solas watching her, imagining herself an elven princess. _In me you see Andraste and Andruil._

To Celene: _a_ _cool wind on a summer’s day_. And of course the woman dressed in blue and gold had loved her elven servant. She introduced her cousin Florianne, Duke Gaspard’s sister: white and brown and coral. Virla imagined Vivienne critiquing: coral ribbons to match your lipstick, oh my dear! Virla parried the conversation carefully; then when dismissed, circled round the ballroom. Cullen was already attracting unwanted attention from both sexes; his headache getting worse, no doubt.

Leliana captured her as she went into the vestibule, thinking it was time to start the hunt in earnest. The nobles gave the Lady Nightingale a wider berth, knowing of her reputation. Leliana whispered a warning about the Empress’ magical advisor. She was ruthless, was she controlling people’s minds within the court? _That’s powerful blood magic,_ countered Virla. Something to watch out for.

There were dwarven guests as well, worrying about the trade embargoes hurting Orzammar. And elven servants: some Briala’s agents, worth observing. The palace was huge and grand, with galleries and statues. She almost walked past Solas, leaning against a gilded clock in his role of _The Lady Inquisitor’s elven serving man_. She wondered if Celene had read the hidden message in that too.

She turned at the familiar scent of elfroot; wondered if she still smelled of rosé wine. He smirked. “I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

She was grateful for the make-up that would hide her blush. “Do you have any interest in dancing?”

“A great deal… although dancing with an elven apostate would win you few favours with the court. Perhaps once our business here is done?” His eyes flickered to her sash, his glass of wine.

For a moment she contemplated finding somewhere quiet, a secret corner, slip into the Fade and ask him to continue what he’d started; dance into the night. But a cooler head prevailed: although the ball was peaceful now, it was the calm before the storm. Was that blood she smelled upon the tiles? And if she failed to stop the assassination, the future would be Redcliffe, death and demons.

She wandered on, charming and observing, ever watchful. Florianne was behaving oddly; Celene had chosen strange timing for reconstruction works. Solas’ words were echoing in her mind. To turn desire to purpose and _hunt well_. She’d found one halla key already; did they hide the secrets? If hallas were the prey she sought then, _Fen’Harel enaste,_ she would be the wolf, no mask required.

****

It had been blood. Not the posturing of Gaspard’s death threats to the Council, nor the obvious bad blood between the parties. The elven servants told her: _Inquisitor Lavellan. Don’t go into the servants’ wing… not one elf’s come out of there alive._ Others whispered of a package in the guest room. She scaled a trellis under cover of a bard’s distraction: _Où est celui qui nous guidera dans la nuit?_ The moon hung high above. In the guest room four Orlesians’ bodies lay beside a letter signed Gaspard, speaking of a weapon in Briala’s hands that could turn the tide of war. She searched the Empress’ library until she heard the bell. Time to return to the ballroom, and to dance once more.

  
  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another world, the Comtesse serves a different menu, with Solas even less constrained by Rules. I can’t resist that dinner party set-up. See [Dinner with the Comtesse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5240024), Regency AU.
> 
> Now that we’re over halfway through the canon part of this story, I’d be interested to hear which parts you like (or don’t like) about this series, and which of the other characters you would like to see more of. I’ve got plenty of ideas in mind for the post-Trespasser chapters, but there are still a lot of possibilities about the way the plotlines intermingle.
> 
> Honesty also compels me to confess that if you try a play-through with this story, you need to lock the Solas romance in with the balcony kiss before you can ask him about dancing at Halamshiral. If you really care about canon compliance (and probably no-one does to this extent!) then the dancing is an added scene like many others, and you need to avoid talking to Solas in the rotunda about his friend until after Halamshiral.


	19. Arcanist bird's opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bird’s Opening is not the most obvious choice of starting move for White (1. f4). Arcanist deathroot has been known to grow on the bodies of dead slaves. Virla decides to keep an eye on Morrigan.

As Virla made her way back to the ballroom, someone’s footsteps echoed behind her on the stairs.

“Well, well, well, what have we here? The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith. Delivered from the Fade by the hand of Blessed Andraste herself! What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?”

This woman was only slightly taller than her, with unusual yellow eyes. She wore, of all things, a purple dress. It was similar in style to the pale blue gown Virla had worn, with a steel-grey overskirt, black boots and a burnished steel necklace. No mask. A rare bird this one, with pinned grey feathers.

Virla let a half-smile play on her lips – the naïve façade would not fool a woman who also chose not to wear a mask – and folded her arms. “We may never know. Courtly intrigues and all that.”

“Such intrigues obscure much, but not all. I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane. You… have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same… prey?”

“I don’t know. Do we?” asked Virla, shrugging.

Her answering laugh sounded… forced, as she reprimanded Virla: “You are being coy.”

Virla’s lips thinned, hardly needing to pretend irritation. “I’m being careful.”

Morrigan explained that she had been attacked by a Tevinter agent found within the palace, and had killed him. She offered Virla a key found on his body, saying that she could not leave Celene’s side.

“If anything were to happen to Celene, eyes would turn first to her “occult advisor”. Even if they knew otherwise. There are sharks in the water, and I will not fall prey to them. Not now, not ever.”

“I may find the time to try a door or two,” said Virla, wondering if it were a trap.

“Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound, not all of them aligned with Tevinter.”

****

Gossip about her and Duke Gaspard was already spreading through the palace. The man himself was using breaks in the negotiations to get drunk on West Hill brandy. Virla evaded his clumsy attempts at flirtation: _I take joy in the scandalized expressions when they see us together_. Ambassador Briala was “that elf” to him, even in speaking to another. His goal was expansionism, not assassination.

No, tonight seemed to be all about the women. Virla left him to his drink and went to speak with the Empress’ ladies in waiting: Fleur, Colombe, Couteau: flower, dove and knife. She asked the Dowager Lady Mantillon to dance: it was the protocol to ask and be refused. Talking with Briala was a breath of fresh air, if sharp and biting: they shared concerns about attacks on elves if Celene was killed. _Celene as voice of reason. Reason’s cautious, doesn’t look for radical change, however sorely needed._

Leliana talked of Halamshiral as the beating heart of the Great Game; the dancers so familiar with its steps that they could dance them in their sleep. Virla wondered which of her companions guessed that she and Solas were meeting in the Fade, and why she’d never asked him about dancing there.

Virla noted that the Orlesian nobles were frequently announced alongside their paramours, of either sex, not just Vivienne as mistress to the Duke de Ghislain. She stifled a slightly hysterical giggle at the thought of Solas’ face if he were announced as such: paramour to the fabled Herald of the faith _._ She asked Vivienne again about the masks: _Who you are as a daughter, a lover, a friend are very different people from the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. Orlesians codify this truth, make it visible. By giving each of these selves its separate face, they believe they can be their truest selves, unmasked._

She looked for Grand Duchess Florianne, Celene’s other cousin. No sign. She found with Vivienne that the key unlocked the servants’ wing, and alerted Solas and Cassandra. This would be bloody.

****

In a bizarre way it reminded her not only of the refugees and travellers captured by the Venatori to be tortured with red lyrium, but also of the fate of elves and slaves across Thedas. Elves lay slaughtered everywhere: on the floor, murdered in their beds with swift and deadly slices. In the kitchens she had climbed into the rafters to pluck a hidden halla from the beams: for a moment she simply stared at it, wondering how the elves had fallen from the heights of Arlathan to this.

Also hiding in the shadows were the Venatori, with elite assassins dressed as Harlequins, and organised (by whom?) to kill a Council emissary. They searched the grand apartments, tracking down the killers, looking for any clues that might help them save Celene. Some tomes Virla saved for later, including a compendium of Orlesian theatre: _The Setting of the Light,_ set in the city of Demhe, another world that somehow became our moon. _The dawn is late. / It will not come again._

She remembered the portrait of Emperor Reville, outside the trophy room; streaks of paint above his ears had suggested elven ears to her. The conqueror of Ferelden a century ago, his mother’s death and military losses to Nevarra turned him mad: he killed his younger twin brother Gratien and all of Gratien’s descendants. Reville ate only venison towards the end; surrounded himself with daggers. Such an irony that these twins were the ones for whom the previous Age had been named Blessed.

They cut the Venatori down in bloody revenge for the defenceless elves. One ran, and was caught by a dagger thrown straight through his mask. Ambassador Briala, cutting to the chase.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing, Inquisitor? What will the nobility say?”

“No doubt there’s a line of people breathlessly waiting for dances with me,” shot back Virla.

Briala laid out her offer: an army of elven spies to the Inquisition, for a share of power in Orlais. _Help me help our people. I know which way the wind is blowing._ Virla wondered if it ever favoured elves.

“More politics and double-dealing,” said Cassandra, as soon as Briala had left. “Is there anyone here who is not corrupt?”

“It’s the Game, my dear,” said Vivienne. “Everyone plays it here.”

Virla touched the pouch that hid the elven locket: a Fade-green stone within a circle of gold. They’d found it in a palace safe (three halla keys): _unwise, Celene_ , had commented the Enchanter.

****

It turned out to be Grand Duchess Florianne who first begged for a dance. Like her brother, she looked younger than her years, which Virla knew to be mid-fifties. Unlike her brother, she’d never been considered as the heir, but Virla was beginning to distrust Valmonts on principle. And if it was not Gaspard’s knife that killed the Council emissary, then someone was aiming to frame him. Surely not his sister? And yet Reville had killed an eight-month-old just for being descended from his twin.

The character of an elven princess, walking towards the Empress’ throne and bowing, transformed into a ruthless goddess bent upon the hunt. And if Florianne were prey then how might she best bait a trap? It was becoming hard to maintain the diplomatic mask, when faced with so much barefaced, double-faced prejudice and bigotry. The nobles wondering where the lazy elves had gone, but no-one bothering to check. The trophy room with all those taxidermied beasts: stuffed, just like the elves had been for centuries. The guards outside the trophy room had bantered, even as the elven redhead Inquisitor approached: _Did you see that knife-eared servant girl in the kitchen? The ginger? / I need to get one of those. / Don’t we all?_ And then they sucked up to her: _you’re an inspiration._

Well, Orlais had got her, and, Dread Wolf take her if she failed, she was going to have Orlais.

The Grand Duchess was taller by a head, but Virla was far stronger. She flattered, flirted, feinted and left Florianne to flounder, uncertain if her partner was her ally or her foe.

“Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe?” asked Florianne archly, as they dipped and wove intricate patterns across the ballroom floor. “Who in the court can be trusted?”

“If I’ve learned anything, your Grace, it is to put my trust in no-one.”

“In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone,” agreed Florianne, feigning sadness.

Virla’s feet carried on the steps, her mouth the conversation, while her mind was pondering whether she’d meant what she had said: I don’t even put my trust in Solas. _I did not tell him about Caritas. Nor am I going to, until he tells me why he is harellan. And yet we’ll dance tonight, if we survive this._

It was Solas that she thought of as she took control, forcing Florianne to take the part of the submissive in the dance, and earning a sudden round of applause from the growing crowd of watchers. If she would not kneel to him, with all his wisdom and his knowledge, she’d hardly tolerate this pampered noblewoman. And then Florianne mis-stepped, and began to frame Gaspard. _Ah yes._

Virla ended with a final flourish and strode off like a man, leaving Florianne in some confusion.

Josephine was in ecstasies about her dancing. Indeed, some crazy part of her had enjoyed the chance to demonstrate her fury through so-called civilized means. But she was thankful that Cullen kept the focus on what mattered: the deaths within the servants’ quarters, and the threat to Celene.

****

They managed to save one elven servant, an agent of Briala’s, in the Royal Wing. A swift boot to the chest of a Harlequin and Virla sent her flying out the window. Even Vivienne looked impressed. And Briala had sent the girl there to die, knowing that she knew of her relationship with Celene.

A man’s voice from a bedroom, seeking help. Virla used more statuettes to gain an entrance; was surprised to find him huge and naked tied by iron cuffs and ropes upon the bed. She thrust away remembrance of the hardened swell through tight Orlesian breeches of Solas’ ignored (memory of?) erection as he’d fondled her within the Fade. _Creators. Not now, Inquisitor._ Celene had used this captain’s information to counter an attack planned by Gaspard, then left him there, a sitting (lying, standing, trussed roast, human) duck. Cassandra scowled. Vivienne looked even more impressed.

In one of the raised inner courtyards they finally sprang the trap that Florianne had set, and were surrounded by assassins. The Veil was perilously thin from all the murders Halamshiral had seen that night; a rift was about to open between two huge statues carrying heads. The Duchess stood up on a balcony and taunted: _we will cast down your Maker and usher in a united world, guided by the hand of an attentive god. I will rule all Thedas in his name. Kill her; bring me the marked hand as proof._

As the marksmen began to fire, Virla flung herself forward. Her hand was pulled towards the rift as it began to open. And as she rolled she heard Solas shout _Dispel!_ They banished all the lesser rifts it spawned, evening the odds to let them kill the archers faster. They rescued a Fereldan mercenary who could testify to Gaspard’s intent to move upon the Palace later; and bought his contract.

They fought their way back to the ballroom through the maze of corridors, through the chapel with the murals Empress Justinia had painted: Andraste’s life (enrobed in white) and death (body aflame in black and red; a superimposed panel, and was that a real sword?), and Shartan in stained glass again. _For I will free the slaves._ The chapel was open to the sky through an atrium of several floors: a strange design. And as they passed the murals Virla noticed Solas suddenly pale with fear: had the demons’ proximity reminded him of Sulevin? Was it something odd about the art that troubled him?

She gritted her teeth and began the final Act. _Posturing is necessary._ _The end is nigh, for I am not a man. I am a force of nature and the bringer of… a peace that none of you deserve, but Orlais does._

****

Too many hours later, Virla leant upon the balcony. She felt she had been channelling the Dread Wolf, through the mark or simply through her fury: stalking her prey and circling with a feral smile. Magic well under control but always present, Dalish-soldier-Herald of Andraste. She’d cornered the Duchess in front of the assembled nobles, right before the Empress’ speech. Florianne decried her _wild stories_ , even as the Imperial guards took her away in front of everyone. She’d forced the three leaders (all complicit) to a truce, holding the threat of blackmail over them. One more weight to carry: keep them from each other’s throats. _Hold them in their prisons. To the hunter go the spoils._

As Celene and Gaspard spoke to the masked ranks of Orlesians, she’d searched the crowd for Solas, and found him eventually in the shadows, bowing across the room to Vivienne, who returned it with a smile. Too tired to read anything more into it but pleasure at the success of their mission, and far too numb to join the drunken toasting, she went out for some air. If he wanted, he could find her.

Instead it had been Morrigan: _by Imperial decree I have been named liaison to the Inquisition. Corypheus is a threat to Orlais… and to myself. Thus, I am not opposed to the appointment._

Virla accepted Morrigan’s appointment, too exhausted to feign anything more than simple civility, and looked down at the garden as she left. Was she a gold or poisoned chalice from Celene, or playing some arcane chess game of her own?

Solas came to lean beside her. “I’m not surprised to find you out here. Thoughts?”

The concern on his face inspired Virla to honesty. “I have a feeling this is only a temporary victory.”

Deep under her numbness, his familiar elfroot scent stirred her, cutting through the residual Palace perfumes of death and blood. He placed a hand on her back: first ever public token of affection to her. She was conscious that there would be eyes behind the windows: Leliana? Josephine? Celene?

Her lover nodded: _yes, we must be honest._ “There’s much, much more trouble ahead. For now, focus on what’s in front of you. Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

He bowed and offered Virla a gloved hand that matched her own. The Veil was thin here, making it easier to detect the doubled colours and vibrations of his aura. As she took his hand to let him pull her close, and looked up to his eyes, she found herself intensely conscious of his physical body: his warmth, his height, his air of regal majesty, so altogether absent from most elves.

His eyes were locked on hers, and as they danced a stately waltz, their auras locked as well. The watchers at the windows might simply see a scene of graceful dancing: two lovers ‘twined in harmony, with perfect rhythm, executing complex steps with the ease of the long-practised.

But within? She’d never danced this dance before, but read it from his mind: the aura flaring colours which directed her to where he planned to go. She felt as if the Veil was not untimely ripped, but simply had evaporated. A story flashed before her eyes: a winged goddess emerging from the sea, to kiss and hold him, calm his rage, and evermore entrance him. Outside of time, outside of Thedas.

And yet woven into the fabric of the world. His breaths were hot and slow upon her cheek.

 _He truly is in love with me_ , she thought.

  
  
  



	20. Red moss, ever green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne’s Alchemy Notes: “A suitable replacement for the primaetas root must be derived, as the plant went extinct during the Second Blight. Dried redmoss cut from a wandering hill has shown similar restorative effects. An emulsion of silverite and elfroot extract can counteract the fatal toxicity of redmoss.”
> 
> The Evergreen Game is a famous chess game from 1852, won by Adolf Anderssen, who was also the victor in the Immortal Game played by Solas and Bull. Annotating the famous move 19. Rad1 after Anderssen’s death, Steinitz wrote: "An evergreen in the laurel crown of the departed chess hero", giving this game its name. Lasker called it “one of the most subtle and profound moves on record”. I’d be surprised if Solas won every game he played with Wisdom (Sophiyel in [Mind Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474826/chapters/10171097)).

Cullen had insisted that those who had fought the Venatori should ride in the carriage on the way back to Skyhold, and after only two hours of dreamless sleep Virla had not resisted. Cassandra had given up her place to Cole (who also looked exhausted), saying riding would take her mind off the madness of the Orlesian court. Virla sat with eyes closed, head laid back against the velvet cushions, pretending not to listen to the conversation, trying to shut out images of slaughtered servants.

Vivienne also seemed upset about something she would not admit to, channelling it into anger.

“Did you expect me to get misty-eyed over who rose to glory and who paid the price, demon? It is the Game. No matter what transpired in the Winter Palace, I took steps to strengthen my position.”

“How do you make a Game you always win?” asked Cole.

“Practice,” replied Vivienne, curtly.

Cole responded with his usual rapid speech, trying to uncover the source of Vivienne’s pain: “Jaws ache, dress stiff, binding. Years of work, favours fought, deals dealt, and the witch usurped my position. You're angry at Morrigan. She took what you had without working.”

“She took nothing,” snapped Vivienne. “If Empress Celene wished the counsel of some untrained witch, she was free to seek it.”

After some minutes’ pause Vivienne turned on Solas. “If mages live among the people, unguarded, unwatched, what should happen when they become possessed, or use their power to harm?”

He responded immediately, having clearly thought through this before. “I would kill them. Magic is more elegant than a blade or a bow, but a murderer remains a murderer.”

Vivienne’s voice was dangerously soft in reply. “So you alone would pass judgment, repay murder with murder, or do we open this up to mobs and vigilantes? If you're going to dispense judgement upon violent mages yourself, you'll need eternal life and omniscience. If only there were individuals dedicated to finding and eliminating such criminals. Perhaps they might help?”

“I am certain they would. Until black and white distinctions perverted their simple minds.”

The carriage had stopped, and Virla waited as Vivienne and Cole got out, presumably for lunch. Virla resolved to explain to Cole why his approach would fail with Vivienne, if she could get him alone.

She wondered if Solas, still sitting beside her, could sense she were awake. Frowning, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him. “The Grand Duchess would have had me killed, but you approved my decision to send her to a trial. I assume that your point here is that magic should be treated as a normal part of life, and that judgements should be appropriate to people’s actions not their method, not that we should act hastily in making judgements.”

He nodded. “Some Templars are thoughtful, but not all. Circles create a power imbalance. I doubt either of us would want to be confined inside one, with the threat of Tranquillity always present.”

Virla sighed. “Thinking of it doesn’t help my headache. What did you make of the Orlesian politics?”

He indicated that she could lean against him, wrapped an arm around her. “There are spirits hovering by the Veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations. The machinations, the betrayals… After our time in Halamshiral, I understand why. I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

“You miss court intrigue? When were you at court?” asked Virla, yawning, before she thought: _Of course: ruins and battlefields. How hard was it merely to observe, not to be able to affect events?_

“Oh. Well, never… directly, of course. An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings. But, from the Fade, I have watched dynasties form and empires crumble. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble. And always fascinating. Halamshiral was full of political gambits, broken promises, half-truths: a palace full of motivation. And motivation is where great things happen. In any event, Celene should now be a steadfast ally, especially after helping her neutralize Briala.”

“I’m pleased you had a good time. Am I sensing concern over how we dealt with Briala?”

“No? Why would I disapprove of… oh, because we’re both elves? I’m sorry, I was confused. I do not consider myself to have much in common with “the elves”.”

It was a welcome change from Orlesian (and, she had to admit, Dalish) racism. “Nor should you. You’re not defined by your ears. Who _do_ you have much in common with? Who _are_ your people?”

“A good question. I think of myself as “me”. That’s all I’ve ever needed. I joined the Inquisition to save the world. Regardless of who “my people” are, this was the best way to help them. As for the elves of Orlais, I believe Briala is doing quite well on their behalf. She is an admirable woman. She organized resistance against a powerful enemy, using only her wits and the resources at hand.”

“So you don’t have anything in common with elves, but you admire her for fighting for them.”

“I admire many people whose interests I do not share.”

“ _You’re_ an admirable man. Not many people know who they are the way you do.”

He tightened his arm around her, laying his head against hers. “Thank you. Both for saying that, and… for seeing that. Few in this world can see me… instead of just seeing a pair of pointed ears.”

The sound of booted footsteps on the road, and Cullen and Cole approached the carriage, each carrying a plate of food. Virla watched the Commander’s face closely as he took in Solas’ arm around her, and the dawning of understanding in him. He handed her the steaming plate without a word and strode off quickly. Cole was about to get into the carriage, but Virla stopped him.

“Cole, you can’t help Vivienne, but you can help Cullen. Go after him while he is alone.”

Solas looked bewildered for some moments before he realised. _You’re not omniscient,_ she thought.

****

When they got back to Skyhold, late in the evening, Virla took care to seek out Vivienne. She found her on the Great Hall balcony, staring at the stars. Virla thanked her for her guidance in Halamshiral and was rewarded by being asked a favour: could she hunt down a snowy wyvern and procure its heart for a potion? It was a private matter, a request from a member of the Council of Heralds.

Virla took the opportunity of the Enchanter’s preoccupation to look through her notes on alchemy. The potion was for age-regression (redmoss substituting for the primaetas root; silverite and elfroot; heat in veilfire; use within a matter of a few hours). Was this what was worrying the Enchanter?

She headed to bed, but found it hard to sleep at first. Solas’ words had forced her to reconsider her own prejudices: was it the fact that Solas was (looked like) an elf that had first decided her in favour of him, and not the Commander? She thought about it for a while, found herself remembering the white wolf of her dreams. Even in Haven she’d known that Solas wasn’t a straightforward man, and that had only increased the attraction he had held for her. If, unlike Cullen, he enjoyed the Game, the acting, the political manoeuvring, was the ascetic healer role some kind of mask as well? Perhaps she should take Blackwall along next time they left Skyhold, monitor their reactions to each other.

Virla drifted into the Fade, and looked. No sign of Solas anywhere in Skyhold. Perhaps he had already gone to plan the next _sa’vunin_ , or perhaps after the carriage ride he wanted time alone? Instead she conjured from memory one of the artefacts that strengthened the Veil. If rifts formed where there was much death, who repaired the Veil when it tore? _Ruins and battlegrounds… Dreamer rule…_

****

She woke up early (old habits were hard to shake), and made her way to the rotunda. Solas had laid half a panel of _el’vhen’alas_ already, and was sitting at his desk. She moved round to stand in front of him, about to ask him what he planned to paint, when she saw the grim expression on his face.

“Something wrong with your tea?”

“It is tea. I detest the stuff. But this morning…” He sighed, and placed the empty cup back on his desk. “I need to shake the dreams from my mind. I may also need a favour.”

“But you don’t need anything. From anyone. You’re known for that,” she teased.

Solas stood and walked away, seeming to want to put some distance between them. “One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

 _He knew another Dreamer?_ “When your friend was captured, how did he… she…”

“It,” he answered, and she relaxed. _Of course. A spirit_. “My friend is a spirit of wisdom. Unlike the spirits clamouring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade. It was summoned against its will, and wants my help to gain its freedom and return to the Fade.”

“I thought spirits wanted to find their way into this world.”

“Some do, certainly, just as many Orlesian peasants wish they could journey to exotic Rivain. But not everyone wants to go to Rivain. My friend is an explorer, seeking lost wisdom and reflecting it. It would happily discuss philosophy with you, but it had no wish to come here physically.”

“Do you have any idea what the mages want with your friend?”

“It knows a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could learn that simply by speaking to it. It is possible that they seek information it does not wish to give and intend to torture it.”

And so, as soon as mounts could be saddled, they rode out westwards from Skyhold once again.

****

It had been interesting, listening to Blackwall talk with Cole and Solas. _So many masks,_ said Cole, before they slept in a camp near Sahrnia, and she had to agree. She’d learned that Solas had fought in a war – _an elven skirmish? / In a manner of speaking_ – and overheard the warrior asking the question she’d never dared ask Solas: _are there any spirits that are more than just friends?_

His taut response had made her glad she’d not asked it herself: _it’s a natural thing to be curious about! / For a twelve-year-old! / It’s a simple yes or no question. / Nothing about the Fade or spirits is simple, especially not that. / Don’t panic. It’ll be our little secret. / Ass. / Now who’s twelve?_

Well, he wasn’t twelve, but he was clearly upset about his friend. He’d told Virla quietly that its name was Sophiyel, but little else. One of his oldest friends… had he known it longer than she’d been alive, for twenty, thirty years, perhaps? Cole might know, but asking him instead felt wrong.

****

“Everything here is blurry,” said Cole. “It wants to forget, but now the rocks are solid.”

They saw bloody, blackened corpses lying on the mossy grass. Solas inspected them. “These aren’t mages. The bodies are burned, and these claw marks…” His voice shook. “No. No, no, no.”

Virla pointed silently towards the river, where the tops of spikes were visible: a summoning circle. A huge pride demon sat within it. Solas growled, inarticulately, turning pale with anger. “My friend.”

Cole looked nauseous as well. They ran across towards it, when they were accosted by a mage: one of the ones who’d built the circle. Virla spoke quickly, feeling Solas’ fury towards him rapidly rising.

“I’ve studied rituals like this. I should be able to disrupt the binding quickly.”

It took but a few minutes to destroy the spikes. Virla hacked the last one into pieces with her spirit blade, and turned to watch as the demon’s shape resolved into that of... a young elven woman. Her skin and dress were grey, softly glowing evergreen, and Fade light shone from empty eyeholes.

Solas crouched down in front of… it? “ _Lethallin. Ir abelas._ ”

The spirit spoke rapidly in an ancient form of Elvish. “ _Tel’abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him. Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghi’lana mir din’an._ ”

Virla quickly thought it through. What would be the best translation? Something like: “Don’t be sorry. Rejoice. I’m me again. You helped me. Now you must endure. Guide me into death.” She watched as Solas replied _ma nuvenin_ , and slowly waved a hand. The Veil rippled with magic she had never seen, from him or any other. The spirit’s skin went pale, flesh-coloured, before dissolving into nothing. Was that a smile that flickered on its face? Solas sighed and whispered: _Dareth shiral_.

“I heard what it said. It was right,” said Virla, thinking _Falon’Din enaste_. “You did help it.”

“Now I must endure,” he muttered sadly, still crouching. Staring where his friend had been.

“Let me know if I can help.”

He got up and turned to face her, mask in place. “You already have. All that remains now is them.” He stalked towards – _to dispense judgement on?_ – the mages. “You tortured and killed my friend.”

They were terrified of him. “We didn’t know it was just a spirit. The book said it could help us.”

A flash of _déjà vu_ hit her: she knew that if she simply stood there, he would incinerate the mages without further thought. There was a smell of spindleweed, of sorrow, reminding her of Dorian and the book bought from the Circle mage who’d wanted to journey to the Dales. These mages were from Kirkwall. She remembered the Tale of the Champion and the horrors they might have endured. Their actions had been wrong, but if Florianne deserved the justice of a trial, then so did they.

The word had escaped from her mouth before she knew it, just a whisper: “Solas…”

He glared at the mages as they turned to flee. Virla murmured to Blackwall to track them down, and ensure that they were taken into custody. Solas looked up to the sky and muttered: _Never again_.

Cole stood beside her, shaking, as they watched Solas fight to quench the fire within him. Without turning to look at them again, he said: “I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

When Blackwall returned, she told him. “We’re going to kill... a snowy wyvern. Damn them all.”

  
  
  



	21. Drawing veils and veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> • Draw: to search (a place) to find wild animals for hunting; to disembowel; to cause blood to discharge; to derive (conclusions); to take liquid; to tie a game; to attract; to depict or sketch  
> • Draw a veil over: to conceal or avoid discussing something  
> • Draw trumps: to play the trump suit (hearts) until opponents have nothing left

**From Virla’s diary, if she’d been inclined (and foolish enough) to keep one.**

**Day 1, Dirthavaren.** Tome for Vivienne. Fade rift: rage and shades. Too much iconography. Rashvine everywhere. And corpses. Avoid the Freemen. Into the Grove they’d opened. Elven burial jars. Two harts divided. A swamp. Another rift. Have to cast my barrier more often. Must focus on fighting, not on him. Broken dog (underwater eyes). And leeches. Flash of white behind the rocks. Dead snowy wyvern. Bloody dripping heart wrapped in canine leather, placed in Mi’nan’s saddlebags. Third rift; avoided dragon. Shrine of Fen’Harel: two white wolves, two black. Left offering (wyvern’s venom).

 **Day 2, Sahrnia.** Talked with Michel de Chevin about Briala’s weapon: eluvians. Need to fight the demon Imshael. Promised to return with backup. He had not seen Solas. No-one had. Found a ruin where a dead harlequin had played chess with a demon. Had he played chess with it? With her? Past the Pools of the Sun, dedicated to Elgar’nan. A title just like Falon’Din, or a transparent name?

 **Day 3, Skyhold.** Arrived late evening. Asked guard on duty; she had not seen Solas. Avoided Cullen’s gaze. Gave Vivienne the snowy heart, went straight upstairs to chamber. Varric and Cassandra followed, accompanied by Cole. Told them all I wanted to pray in peace, but did not pray. Cried quietly instead, for he had loved her. _But surely he loves me as well?_ Fell fast asleep. No dreams.

 **Day 4, Skyhold.** Hall full of Orlesians. Vivienne led me to a private chamber, where she had had Bastien laid out on a bed. She fed him the potion; he spoke briefly, then he died (again?). Vivienne distraught. Offered help to her. Tried not to think of Solas, after. He would surely come back soon.

 **Day 5, Skyhold.** Went into the war room. Why does no-one fix the corridor wall beside it? Corypheus moving southwards to the Arbor Wilds; our numbers match his. Morrigan intruded to show me an eluvian she’d brought. Not broken like the ones within the Fade. It led to somewhere she called the Crossroads, a place between. Briala must have seen this. Spherical trees and darkened mirrors; our voices echoed strangely. It all felt… unreal. _Not the Fade, but very close. Formed from the fabric of time and space, perhaps,_ she said. _Not all the mirrors lead back to our world. One cannot remain in between forever._ I looked around for Caritas, but there was no-one. Spent rest of day in library.

 **Day 6, Skyhold.** Started in the war room. Need to talk with Minister Bellise for favours to protect Josephine. Queen Anora wants her to support new peace talks with Celene, Josie’s fearful of assassins. Instead asked her to draw on allies to drive back darkspawn from Val Gamord; said I’d go to Val Royeaux after we’ve taken Suledin Keep. Agreed with Cullen we would work with the Imperial Army on the road to Montsimmard. No news from Wycome yet. No sign of Solas. Library again.

 **Day 7, Skyhold.** In library. Last night I almost broke my vow not to seek him in the Fade. _I need some time alone,_ he’d said. But how much time? We had _two weeks_ together. Only that, and now he’s gone again. Yet, if he had known Sophiyel for twenty years (or longer), I must allow him time to grieve. Did he see her as a friend, a sister? As his wife? A daughter? He’s used to being alone. He knows where our camps are located. Surely he’ll come back to me, or at least to the Inquisition.

 **Day 8, Skyhold.** At last, some news from Wycome. Dalish seen as heroes in the city, merchants and labourers fought beside them against the madness that had taken their nobility. Deshanna helped heal the citizens from the effects of the red lyrium in the wells. Duke Antoine dead; she fears retaliation from the other Free Marches cities. Josephine still thinks diplomacy will work, but I agreed with Cullen. He’s sending troops to fortify the city. He walked me to the battlements, asked me if I’d heard from Solas. Perhaps he could sense that I was fighting with my anger. He told me about Ferelden’s Circle, how he’d been angry too. Thanked me for helping him fight his addiction. I thanked him for his friendship; for heeding my concerns about my clan. Planted herbs and prayed.

 **Day 9, Skyhold.** Dorian approached me in the library. Asked me if I had had lunch. I said I hadn’t. Walked me to the tavern. Went up to invite Sera, but her door was shut. Dorian almost got an arrow in the face. She was still furious about all the servants’ deaths and no-one caring. We agreed we should have stopped the ball with bees. Or earwigs. And that Briala and Celene should never have shared a bed: _never sleep with an empress, that’s the lesson_. Dorian brought us some food. And Bull. And Varric. We played a game of Wicked Grace. I actually felt hungry for the first time in a while.

 **Day 10, Skyhold.** Been back here for a week. Sat upon the couch in the rotunda for the first time on my own. It’s strange in here without him painting, or nose deep in some book. I’ve worked through half the titles on the list he gave to Josephine when he arrived. If I ever have to track him down it may prove of some use. I hope he is all right. I hope my clan is. Odd to think of them stuck in a city.

 **Day 11, Skyhold.** Had to admit to Dorian I’d been reading in my sleep. He’d wondered how I was getting through so many books so fast. He seemed impressed with me, but called the library alarmingly chaotic. He agreed he would help with cataloguing it, if I sourced him the Liberalum. It reminded me about that old Tevinter manuscript, and Frederic, and dragons. There would be time for one more trip out west: take Suledin; do Val Royeaux; meet Frederic; clear out the Venatori in the Hissing Wastes. But only if we depart soon. I’m beginning to wonder if he will ever come back.

 **Day 12, Skyhold.** Found Josephine arguing with a Revered Mother. They want Cassandra or Leliana as candidates for the Sunburst Throne. Prevaricated. I don’t know what they’ll say to that. She’d come along with the Imperial guards who brought Grand Duchess Florianne for trial. Perhaps it was the lunch with Sera, but I sentenced her to farm work: _sentenced to walk with animals. How droll._ She does remind me of a halla somehow. I’m sure Solas would have preferred we use her talents to uncover more of Corypheus’ networks. Hmm. I could do that, but on the quiet. I’ll speak to Leliana.

 **Day 13, Skyhold.** Went to look for Cole. Found him with Varric in the tavern. Told him that we’d have to leave for Suledin soon, with or without Solas. He was missing Solas too, but being with Varric seemed to calm him. Varric introduced me to Bianca. Not the crossbow but the real one. She’d heard about another entrance to the site of Bartrand’s Folly. More red lyrium madness. Still think Suledin comes first, but after if there’s time enough we can go east. Time enough... where is he?

 **Day 14, Skyhold.** Was sitting in my usual place, curled up in what once was Dorian’s chair, when I saw him coming. I’d been planning out the route we’d take, glanced up and saw him walking on the bridge. I took a calming breath. I felt like running down the stairs, but then we’d never get a word in private. Quietly I placed the maps upon a shelf and left through the rotunda, through the Great Hall, walking soft as if I planned to go to talk to Dennet about Mi’nan’s welfare. It stirred a memory of spying at the Conclave: the ways to stay within the shadows, not attract attention. Soft, or stone?

 **Day 15, Skyhold.** He greeted me as _Inquisitor_. For a moment my heart turned to stone. But only for a moment. His eyes were red with grieving, and I softened. _A true friend,_ he called me. _I could hardly abandon you now._ I told him that the next time that he had to mourn, he didn’t need to be alone. _It’s been so long since I could trust someone._ I told him that I knew that. He’ll work on it, he said.

 **Day 16, Skyhold.** Since he came back he’s stayed in the rotunda, just staring at his desk or at the wall. I think he laid a strip of _el’vhen’alas_ , although it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t seem to notice when I enter. The shields are up at night. No news from Wycome. Some fighting would do us all some good, if only to distract myself from what I dare not even write about. We need to deal with Imshael.

 **Day 17, En route to Emprise du Lion.** Blackwall, Cole and Solas. I have the strangest sense they all feel they are murderers at times: haunted by old battles or by the murders in the Spire. At least when fighting red templars we can be sure we’re ending misery, not causing more. Reports say we’ve been picking off patrols; the Keep’s defence is weak now. I wondered what the Pools of the Sun were like before the snow. I asked Solas if he knew, and almost got a smile; he just said: _warmer._

 **Day 18, Tower Camp, Emprise du Lion.** I worried I’d have demons in my dreams again, but Solas showed me how to cast a stronger shield at nights. He’s still keeping his distance. Quiet but angry underneath; the fighting gives him purpose. Imshael knew we were here, and sent demons to attack Sahrnia. Michel has it covered. We’ll attack the Keep at dawn tomorrow.

 **Day 19, Suledin Keep.** The less said about the horrors there the better. I’m glad it’s over. Felandaris everywhere. They’d tried to corrupt giants with red lyrium. As Solas said: _impressive, and more than a little unnerving._ Behemoths are bad enough. Imshael wrote about Michel: _he’ll trip on his good intentions and fall down a well within a week_ (why a well?). Corypheus believed the composition of earth here (azure granite?) made red lyrium grow more rapidly. We killed Imshael at last. He offered me a choice: riches, power or virgins. _It rarely hurts to listen,_ Solas said, _but trust is another matter entirely._ I’d learnt that one too. I chose to kill; it turned to fear and rage and pride. Odd. Solas once said: _demons rarely change their tactics_. Imshael called to Forbidden Ones: Xebenkeck and Gaxkang. Hadn’t they been killed by Hawke and Paragon Aeducan? Wasn’t there a fourth, the Formless One?

 **Day 20, Suledin Keep.** We’ve taken it over for the Inquisition, which will probably mean we deck it out in Orlesian Chantry statues. Bigger battles to fight but still… this was once an elven palace. There are reliefs of Razikale and the templar; they remind me somehow of the Imperial highway carvings, but they must have meant something to the elvhen in the Dales. Must ask Josie for an archaeologist. Wide open spaces which were once great halls: Solas said it reminded him of Skyhold. My muscles ache from dodging blows from behemoths. Am longing for a back rub, but it’s far too soon to ask.

 **Day 21, Suledin Keep.** Baron Edouard Desjardins has taken over the rebuilding efforts. He’s an old friend of Josie’s father and seems well informed. Still, we’ll likely get Orlesian Chantry statues. Last night Blackwall found a stash of Abyssal Peach and invited me to share it. He told me about his childhood and how it was easier to close one’s eyes than try to make the world a better place. Today I saw him talking on the battlements with Solas, and shortly after, he departed. He said he wanted to check up on the soldiers at the camps, but he’s still not back. Sahrnia safe. Recruited (Ser) Michel.

 **Day 23, Val Royeaux.** One of Leliana’s messengers arrived at Suledin, with a letter from Blackwall, and news. It said I’d given him the wisdom to know right from wrong and the courage to uphold the former. _It’s been my honour to serve you._ Leliana’s news was that Lt Cyril Mornay was captured in Lydes, due to be executed within the week at Val Royeaux for the murder of Celene’s General, his wife, their four children and retainers. She suspected Blackwall might have a personal interest. Solas was furious with him for deserting me – feeling his own guilt, perhaps? I asked him to go back to Skyhold. Cassandra and Vivienne had gone to Val Royeaux to pacify the Chantry. I joined them after offering Bellise entrée to the Antivan court. She had a thing for elves, but I really wasn’t interested.

 **Day 24, Val Royeaux.** It turned out Blackwall never was a Warden; he was Thom Rainier, Mornay’s captain. He condemned himself to save Mornay from hanging. I visited him in prison: _I didn’t take Blackwall’s life. I traded his death. I’m a murderer, a traitor, a monster._ I told him he was more than that. His men had trusted him; knew nothing. _An army is not just a weapon._ He didn’t know about the children, nor did his men. I think that’s what has haunted him the most. Cullen journeyed out to Val Royeaux with Leliana’s full report: impressed by Blackwall’s courage even as he despised him.

 **Day 27, Skyhold.** Cullen journeyed back with us to Skyhold; I was grateful for the company. Best of all, he brought good news: my clan are safe. Deshanna’s on the Wycome city council. How times change. Solas had laid more _el’vhen’alas_ , but hadn’t started painting. Everyone’s furious with Blackwall, except Cole, who probably knew it all along. And me. With demons and dragons and darkspawn magisters to fight, we can’t afford _not_ to forgive those who truly seek redemption. Josie had a letter calling off the hunt; she told me that she was a bard, once. She’s gone to broker peace.

 **Day 32, Dirthavaren.** And so we came full circle, almost, back to Enavuris. Leliana had got Blackwall quietly released. I told him he was free to atone, but no more pretending. He said he wanted to serve the Inquisition, and that he’d prefer if we called him Blackwall, to give him something to aspire to. We freed the soldiers trapped in Citadelle du Corbeau and Fort Revasan: _so much has happened and we didn’t even know. Have we been out of contact so long?_ Solas stayed at range with the revenants this time, thank Sylaise. Near the Shrine of Fen’Harel we found an elven puzzle: a Dead Hand, buried, behind a golden barrier. It reminded me again eerily of Sulevin, but also of the Crossroads: spherical trees. There was a tomb, a _single_ tomb: two archers on it, two wolves beside it guarding; inscriptions telling of the Twins: Dirthamen and Falon’Din. I could have laughed. Or cried.

 **Day 33, Dirthavaren.** I found _Hanal’ghilan_ , the golden halla! Don’t know if I’m more pleased by that, or that Solas seems to be responding, however slowly, to this world again. Thank the gods for Cole. Told Emalien about her brother: dead by Lindiranae’s Talisman, which I gave her. Keeper Hawen told me he would let Loranil join us: _perhaps you will be the bridge that others hope you are._

 **Day 36, Skyhold.** After being strong for other people for so long, Cole finally cracked. Perhaps the revenants had reminded him as well of what he feared. I found him asking Solas if he’d bind him with blood magic. Solas was clearly upset, and taking refuge in pedantry: _I do not practise blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academic._ Somehow even that sounded like poetry when Solas said it. Told Cole that he must not ask the mages to bind him in a blood magic rite. He told me I should ask Solas to bind me as well, and then someone could bind him. If it hadn’t been so serious, it might have been funny, but neither of them were going to get the joke right now. I was glad that Bull was out of earshot. Thankfully Solas was able to suggest another solution: an amulet of the unbound, used by Rivaini seers. I spoke to Josephine, she’ll contact a friend of hers in Dairsmuid.

 **Day 42, Lake Luthias.** Lady Annamaria, Josie’s friend, sent an amulet to us as a gift – the messenger found us just before we left to follow up Bianca’s lead in Valammar. It didn’t work at first, which made Cole even more distraught. Solas looked strangely old, as if this had reminded him of some past experience he’d rather have forgotten. He helped Cole to locate the pain, which conveniently was in this direction. I left Cole at the camp with Solas and took Bull and Dorian with Varric. Dorian had finished his research into Corypheus’ past and was excited to be with us, paying me extravagant compliments about my new robes and headgear. He and Bull do get on well, for a Vint and a Qunari. I thought I looked too much like Briala, but the Orlesian mask and covered hair did get me a second glance (and more) from Solas. Valammar might have been a deep romantic chasm once. Now it is a Carta haunt with darkspawn. As I thought, Bianca was the leak: another soul looking for redemption. Bull partly cheered up Varric by persuading us to fight the dragon in Lady Shayna’s Valley. _I really am in the ass-end of nowhere now,_ said Varric, _but at least it’s better than the Deep Roads._

 **Day 46, Val Royeaux.** I don’t know if the decision was right, but I chose to help Cole grow as a person, rather than keep him as a spirit. I felt Solas was blinded by his own desire to have Cole stay familiar. When I found Cole in the tavern he was listening to Maryden singing: _now we reside in the great divide_. I asked him how he was: he can still sense our emotions, but we’re quieter, and he can understand. And learn. He can’t make us forget, because he’s realer now. He said he was like the first Cole, the mage who templars forgot. The real Cole didn’t want to be a mage, so this Cole isn’t. Anyway. I brought him with me here and we had dinner in a restaurant. He even had a go at eating.

 **Day 50, Skyhold.** Got back, talked with Solas about Cole. He was surprisingly accepting of the choice; said that no solution would be perfect. I repeated Cole’s words to him, hoping that they would sink in. _You watch me walk into darkness over and over, and you always worry. Thank you._ I didn’t tell him that I grew up waiting, watching. Waiting for the hunters to return. Waiting with the hunters for the prey to venture close enough. Watching for the signs of spring. My childhood wasn’t exactly cloistered from the realities of life, or death, or grief, or human nature. I didn’t need to tell him that. He’s laid more _el’vhen’alas_ but not yet a whole panel: perhaps the Orlesian gear was too obvious a hint. And Cole is still himself. He said to me: _Old pain. Shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change._ I wondered if he spoke of himself… or Solas.

 **Day 52, En route to the Hissing Wastes.** Reports say there are ancient dwarven ruins on the surface. The Venatori and Red Templars were looking for something here, so we’re travelling to the west again. I brought Bull, suggesting he might resume his old chess game with Solas. He heard the subtext. Dorian hinted that I should give up on him and take another mage instead, but I just smiled.

 **Day 56, Hissing Wastes.** This is fascinating. Ruins predate 700TE, before the Blights. The Veil is thin. Something drove the dwarves out of the Deep Roads; they collapsed the tunnels rather than go back. Did ancient dwarves see demons as impure spirits-of-the-stone? The whole place reminds me of Solas’ tale of Barindur. It just feels… buried. Exploring only overnight because the daytime is too hot. I feel the moon is watching me again. And Solas too, of course. Every time I look around he’s watching me, pretending not to, as if he would commit my shape to memory, to paint or sculpt it later. I wonder which one will prevail: the Solas who’s in love with me, or the Solas who resists it?

 **Day 59, Hissing Wastes.** The trail of tombs spoke of a father and two sons: the father taken by time and one brother killing the other. The father was Master Smith Paragon Fairel. There are dwarven dragon statuettes. I was turning one over in my hands at camp, discussing Fairel’s story with Bull, when I heard Solas chuckle. He could scarcely take his eyes off me. I think I know which one will win.

 **Day 60, Hissing Wastes.** We opened Fairel’s tomb, went back to camp to sleep one last time before we travelled home. Bull was waxing lyrical to Cole about the dwarven ruins in Par Vollen and how his old tamassran would have loved to study the engineering of this place. I was thinking about emerald crystals, holding an amrita vein flower, when Solas whispered in my ear: _stay right there, Amrita._ He took some parchment from his pack, and a pencil, and began to sketch me, lit by moonlight. I’m sure that he could hear my heartbeat, just as I could feel his aura: I think he knows I know that he is mine.

 **Day 64, Skyhold.** Back late last night. I woke at dawn and looked out through my panelled windows. In the distance I saw him on the battlements, gazing at the mountains. I watched him for a while, until he turned and made his way back to the rotunda. The place was just awakening; there might be chance for private talk if I seek him there. Has this game of waiting finally reached its end point?

 **Later that day.** At last we are in tune, even more so than before Halamshiral. For when I found him he was standing by the flame and sought to speak with me. And so we went up to my chamber. He was pensive, thoughtful… hesitant. Not proud at all, but penitent. He asked me questions: had the Anchor changed me? Had he misjudged the Dalish? Told me I was wise, with subtlety in my actions, that I understood the world. I asked him why this conversation, but already knew the answer.

He had not forgotten the kiss, our first in Haven. The only time he’d truly let me in. And yet he still resisted… almost. Told me it would be kinder in the long run not to. But then love overcame him and he took me in his arms.

I was trembling, shaking, so conscious of his body pressed to mine, of his magic flowing through me, of his adoration. His lips were sweet to taste, so real; our auras interlocking like when we were dancing. I felt like I was flying through the air and tracing rainbow sunbeams through the night.

He lifted his head from mine and told me outright that he loved me: _ar lath ma, vhenan_.

And then, he left. I don’t think it’s because it felt so wrong this time.

I think that it’s because it felt so _right_.

  
  
  



	22. Arbor blessing: queen’s gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See arbor blessing in spring and you shall not go hungry in winter. – The Botanical Compendium

Virla stood on her balcony for a time, remembering the words of Celene’s Lady Fleur: we must never forget that life is both bitter and sweet. How long should she wait before going after him this time?

She’d played the game out in her mind many times up to the point that Solas kissed her. Like water over stone, her patient love would eventually wear his resistance down. But this felt like the start of a new game, one she’d never played before. Solas had played king’s gambit in his match with Bull. Surely it was time for her to play the queen and try some gambits of her own.

And really, she had had enough of waiting.

She went downstairs, to find Josie coming to meet her. Cursing inwardly, Virla followed her to her office. She picked up a pile of new reports, while Josie talked and unlocked a drawer of her desk.

“Inquisitor? It’s lovely to have you back at Skyhold. I’m longing to hear about what you found in the Hissing Wastes. Solas asked me to give this to you. He said he was going out for the day with some of the mages who are taking measurements of the Veil, but that he would be back this evening.”

Virla held her hand out for the rolled parchment, wondering if she should open it in front of her friend the ambassador or not. It was tied with a spray of arbor blessing and a neat bow of lilac ribbon, a colour she’d never seen on sale in Skyhold. Had he bought that in Orlais? And if so, when?

“Virla? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She’d realised she’d been staring at the ribbon for too long, and, to avoid answering directly, tugged it open. The parchment unrolled to show the picture he’d drawn of her in moonlight with an amrita flower. Underneath, in an elegant script, it read, simply: “ _Vhenan. Find me tonight? Tread softly._ ”

There was space enough below it for her to roll it up and take a pen and write _vir suledin_ below, without letting Josie see the picture or his message. Then she retied the ribbon and gave it back.

“Please would you ensure that a messenger gives this to Messere Solas as soon as he returns?”

“Of course, my lady. Most mysterious,” said Josephine, returning Virla’s smile with twinkling eyes.

****

Like always after she returned from travelling, there was a deal of catching up to do, inside and outside the war room. Cullen explained that the Orlesian forces were now heading for the Arbor Wilds, and that they should aim to accompany them within the week to ensure they held the advantage against Corypheus’ forces. She spoke with Mason Gatsi and arranged for him to receive the new mosaic pieces collected in the west, so that they could be hung upon the Great Hall walls.

She spoke at length with Leliana, who had received a letter sent to her by Justinia’s executors. The upshot was that tomorrow they would ride for the coast, to sail across the Waking Sea to Valence. Justinia had been a cleric there for many years and had left something for Leliana in the Chantry.

Early in the evening, she headed for the tavern. She wanted to tell someone about Solas, and thought that Varric might be there. Of all the people here, he seemed to be the one who best understood that love was not a simple _yes_ or _no_ , but complex, thrilling, painful, puzzling.

Bull and Dorian and Krem were gathered around a table, drinking.

“Inquisitor!” cried Bull, pulling out a chair for her. “Come, have a drink!”

Maybe she could find Varric later. And maybe a drink was exactly what she needed right now, to settle nerves and take her mind off… whatever she might find, or do, within his dreams.

“To killing a high dragon like warriors of legend!”

Bull pushed a tankard towards her and filled it up with something that looked… bloody? Now _that_ was not a good association. She took a sniff and wrinkled up her nose.

“What exactly am I supposed to be drinking?”

“Maraas-lok!”

Perhaps some silent celebration was in order, for a first kiss (in this world at least) if not for dragons. She lifted the tankard to her lips, noting Krem and Dorian’s carefully blank faces, and poured it down her throat. It burned like some kind of cross between the toxic vapours from the sulphurous pits of the Approach, veilfire and the Abyssal Peach she’d drunk with Blackwall in the Keep. With an effort she managed to stop herself retching, and placed the tankard back upon the table.

Krem looked impressed. Bull turned to Dorian and said: “You win, mage boy. I’ll buy dinner.”

****

Virla was lying, in someone’s bedroom. On someone’s bed and she could smell elfroot. Her head felt… dizzy. She turned it and saw him standing there watching, close by the bed. Knew there was something you ought to say when you felt like this.

“ _Taarsidath-an halsost_ ,” she whispered, thinking _where am I now?_

Solas looked furious. “I told Bull that he must water down the _maraas-lok_ if he offered you any. The physiology of a small elven mage is not at all like that of a Qunari warrior.”

She tried for humour. “The Dalish didn’t make me like this… hic… the decisions were mine.”

He passed her a glass of water; she sat up and accepted it, smoothing out the skirts of her lilac dress.

“ _Ma serannas_ , _vhenan_.” The word slipped off her tongue so easily here, and his eyes lit in response. He sat down beside her on the bed and offered her a hand, for her to lace her fingers through it.

She could feel his anger rapidly abating, and being replaced by… amusement?

“ _’Ma Virlath, ‘ma vhenan._ If you were actually drunk then I would not have let you in my dreams at all. It was a nice touch to have Bull call me into the tavern and give me a reason for being in your room. The gossip’s all about him getting you drunk on _maraas-lok_ , and not about us; we faked a good argument within the hall about it. Did you need to go to the extreme of lying under the table?”

She grinned. “It was the only angle from which I could watch the steps to the rotunda. Bull told me yesterday while we were riding that he would water it down, but we’re not to tell Dorian. It’s not lying if it’s by omission, right? He thinks he won the bet, and Bull’s buying him dinner as a result.”

“Ah. I see. I’m impressed at how long you managed to keep up the pretence that you were fooling me.”

He paused, smiling still, and she took the opportunity to ask the question she had wanted to ask all day, and for the month before. “What is it that you actually want from a relationship with me?”

Virla sipped from her glass, following his gaze to where his thumb was gently stroking her other hand. The water was remarkably realistic, tasting fresh. She would have to ask him how to do that.

“I would like to make you happy,” he said, suddenly entirely serious. “For however long we have.”

“But you don’t know how long that will be?”

He shook his head, then looked sadly into her eyes. “I told you it had been a long time since I could trust anyone. I will not lie to you, _vhenan_ , but you already know that I can’t tell you everything.”

She thought about her theory: the Solas in love with her and the Solas who resisted; one looking into the past and the other into the future; and not knowing which was which.

“Because you don’t know, or because you can’t say? Or because you don’t want to tell me?”

“Those are good questions. Sometimes all are true. In this case I simply don’t know yet.”

She put the water down upon the bedside table. This was like she’d imagined his room in Skyhold, but without the danger of being overheard by neighbours. Spirits, of course, were always listening.

“And what about your happiness?”

He looked, and felt, surprised. “It’s been even longer since anyone who was not a spirit cared enough to ask that one. The grim and fatalistic façade is not just a mask. I really am like this.”

There would be time enough, she hoped, to ask about Sophiyel later. She leaned up and pressed a soft kiss on his lips, felt a surge of passion pulse through him, piercing through the frozen sadness.

“I can’t hold back time,” murmured Virla, still holding his gaze. “But I can make your heart beat faster, so that the time we have feels longer. _Ar lath ma, vhenan._ ”

The words were like a spell unlocking his desire, his hunger for her. She felt him holding back the dam just long enough to ask: “Did you mean what you said in Qunlat?”

She prayed that she had conjugated it correctly. Best to be absolutely sure, for both their sakes. “I said that you would bring me sexual pleasure later, while thinking of this with the greatest of respect.” She blushed, adding: “And now it just sounds crude. I don’t know the right Elvish words.”

“Are you sure, my heart? Remember this is in my mind, not yours; you’re as safe as I can make you.”

She nodded, thinking _I’m sure it’s not quite that simple, is…_ when the floodgates opened.

She was water washing over him, he was hard as adamantite rock and pressed against her thigh. His fingers traced a line along her dress between her breasts; the buttons simply vanished. Perhaps he was tired of waiting too? His lips were devouring hers; his magic pulsing veilstrike soft and rhythmic. With sudden crystal clarity she felt his hand push the silk aside to trace circles around her nipple, then as it grew hard, move down and slide within her bindings, in between her thighs. He lifted his head from hers to smile down at her as she moaned in pleasure, scarcely conscious of anything beyond her wetness and his fingers rubbing firm against her clit. At some point he’d thought away his tunic and his jawbone. She realised she could do the same with her bindings and her dress.

Another flood of intensely felt emotion: she was naked in his arms, and she belonged to him. To Solas. His _vhenan_. She gasped and shivered, knowing that he could not fake this depth of longing here. She moved a hand to stroke against his trousers, slide inside, but he forestalled her, smiling.

“Not the first time. I want to serve you, make you happy. Tonight is about you. It is enough.”

Instead she found herself arching against his naked chest, reaching up to lick along his ears and feeling him shudder as she sucked the tip. His other hand caressed her lower back, pulling her tight against him as he slipped a finger right inside her. He was whispering words in Elvish, endearments, lavish praises she only partly understood. All she could do in return was gasp _vhenan, ‘ma sa’lath._

Then he pulled away from her, to kneel between her legs and press his tongue against her clit. His fingers slid within her, fire magic faintly pulsing from the tips, as he licked in slow, deliberate circles.

She felt herself come alive, on fire, screaming from sheer pleasure.

****

And when she woke, he was still in the room, lying on the bed beside her, both still fully clothed in what they’d worn the previous day. He was asleep and looked at peace for once. She dressed and, since he had not yet awoken, left a note for him upon the desk. _Gone to Valence with Leliana. Back here in three days’ time. Cassandra’s coming too. See you in the nights, vhenan._

****

It hadn’t just been pleasure in the nights, although it thrilled her heart to think of it. Solas was trying to be open with her. He loved it when she made her hair long, right down to her waist, and let him braid it in elaborate styles he said he’d seen in Arlathan, Halamshiral or Par Vollen. It gave them time to talk. Time to exchange stories in between the kisses. The Fade could be their _Kal Repartha_ , the name from carvings on the doors of Fairel’s burial chamber: a place where we may meet in peace.

He warned her, not directly, about Morrigan, who she’d learnt from Leliana was a daughter of Asha’bellanar. He’d spoken of a cottage in the Chasind Wilds: _empty, long abandoned, but the world feared that she might return_. Leliana had warned her too: _she’s here because she wants something._

In the daytime she watched him painting, at long last, the _sa’vunin_ for Halamshiral. It now made sense why he had waited: this was a panel which had needed to be drawn in joy, a blue and gold fiesta of excitement, dainty minuets of latticework and masked Orlesian dancers. Light hearted and exquisite. Perfect.

A pity such perfection could not last. Virla waited until after dinner to tell him that they would be leaving for the Arbor Wilds at once, with Morrigan. She had confirmed it in the War Room earlier in the day, but hadn’t wanted to distract him from his inspiration for the painting. She’d also decided to leave Cole with his adopted mentor Varric, and take Sera and Cassandra to the Arbor Wilds. If she ever had needed someone who would keep her grounded, this was definitely Sera’s time to shine.

****

Cassandra had been happy for her when she’d said she’d share a tent with Solas on this trip, though it had been immediately followed by a groan as she had realised that that left her with Morrigan and Sera. Virla had decided not to tell Sera but was not surprised to find she had already guessed: _I’ve seen how you look at him. You’re in it. Bet he calls out “Elven glory” when he does it._

The morning before he’d started painting, Virla had walked into the rotunda to find Sera sitting on the desk, swinging her legs and watching Solas preparing pigments. His back was to them both.

“Oh come on. Drop ‘em and rebuild the empire. Phwoar!” said Sera, lying back upon the desk, legs splayed. She’d picked up one of the shards for Solasan they’d studied, and pressed it in between her legs, making obscene licking noises. Virla noticed Dorian looking over the balcony, eyebrow raised.

She’d laughed, because what else could you do with Sera? “You’re ridiculous!”

“Not me. It’s him! And you.”

Solas had then turned around, a smile forming helplessly upon his lips as he looked across the room to Virla. “Only one of us is looking sad and foolish, Sera.”

Sera had made a face at him, then had sprung off the desk and stalked off to the Great Hall, swaying her hips exaggeratedly as she passed the shard to Virla. “Oh, go twang your ears.”

“Don’t concern yourself, _vhenan_ ,” said Solas, earnestly. “She is… apart from herself.”

That had been odd, but at least he seemed to be able to cope with Sera’s take on their relationship. There was no point in keeping it a secret now. At least they’d be away from here before the whole of Skyhold knew. And news of Corypheus would drown out the idle gossip.

Eventually, perhaps.

  
  
  



	23. Lunatic’s death route or knight’s tour?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunatic's Deathroot is associated with the story of the courtesan Melusine, who sought revenge on a powerful magister by baking it into pies which caused terrifying hallucinations. A knight’s tour on a chessboard is where a knight visits each square only once, like the circuits in the Temple of Mythal.

When Virla looked back, later, after Corypheus was dead, she could pinpoint the exact moment when she stopped thinking of herself as a Dalish girl, and started thinking of herself as “me”.

It wasn’t when she let Solas cast his spell to free her face from Mythal’s vallaslin _,_ although that night would be etched in her memory forever, for reasons altogether different.

It wasn’t when she watched Morrigan invoke Mythal, and was astonished to find that Morrigan’s mother Flemeth, the famous Asha’bellanar, had Mythal’s spirit trapped within / entangled with her.

It wasn’t when she felt the _geas_ from the well, the will of priests bound for endless time to a winged creature that she hardly knew, whose branch motif was wrought with blood and ink upon her face.

It wasn’t when she stood among the sentinel elves within the Temple of Mythal, listening as Abelas declared: _The people we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are not my people._

Nor was it when she stood within Elandrin’s tomb and looked around, and saw the candles round the four-armed beings and the dragon statues, and realised how much history had been suppressed.

It was before all that, when she stood outside Din’an Hanin and saw the blistered bodies lying there, and sought revenge on Corypheus’ forces not for Taven or his fellow Dalish, but for the Requisition Officer from Denerim who talked about mabari, and her fellow Inquisition soldiers.

 _My people are those who trust in me_ , thought Virla. _I must defeat Corypheus to help them._

****

Virla walked the labyrinthine paths within the Temple of Mythal, and thought about her life.

Who would she have been, if she had been the third mage in her clan and not the fourth? Married by now to Soren, the clan’s best young hunter, or to Uthanil, the craftsman? Delivering babies, hers or someone else’s, healing wounds, telling stories, laying out the dead. Or killed in Wycome?

Her Dalish heritage would always be a part of her, but she was no longer part of it. And yet, her clan was living in a city, albeit the most free of all the Free Marches cities, a third the size of Val Royeaux: wild and coastal. Would they take her back, if she survived? Did she want to go back?

What would they make of Solas?

She frowned as she stumbled on the path, tripping on a square she’d already walked upon, and had to start again. This ritual involved two sets of gates, below a broken roof. A huge mosaic of a wolf was laid into the wall, gold, not red as in the Temple of Dirthamen. Solas was staring up at it, while Morrigan and Sera sat with Cassandra by the war-themed mural on the other side, arguing as ever.

Virla blocked the others out and thought about the elves and war. They’d found the tomb of Elandrin deep in Din’an Hanin, with an old account of the Battle of Red Crossing running counter to the histories the Chantry told. He had loved a human girl called Adalene, and both had died: the woman to the elf Siona whose sister had been killed by humans; Elandrin by the humans in revenge.

When she’d first come to the Dales she’d thought of the Emerald Knights as great romantic heroes, but now she could see the Chantry’s point, and see them too as ruthless butchers. At Sera’s urging they’d killed the Greater Mistral dragon earlier that day, and found a twisted tree beside it, where once the heads of humans hung, beheaded by the knights. She could not wish to associate herself with that, but still the imagery (of trees, of twins, reflections, roots) struck a chord within her.

Within Elandrin’s tomb the only veilfire rune was dedicated to a pair of twins: Ilan & Rin. (Elandrin?)

_Two emerged within an eve. As one they fought, as one they fell. Falon’Din enasal enaste._

Virla had read out Elandrin’s final letter to them all. He’d written to Adalene: _what care have I for gods I have never seen, for a Maker I do not know? Let others distract themselves with such lofty concerns. I know only this life, I have seen only this world, and I care only for you._

She’d not met Solas’ eyes. Instead she’d looked around at the strange four-armed statues, the dark clawed beast above, the dragons. Vulnerable, disturbed, distressed. _Were these her gods?_

Solas had tried to catch her gaze, as if he tried to comprehend her sorrow to find a way to offer comfort. Said gently that the Dalish would be interested in this. She remembered Cassandra asking him about his faith, could recite his answers word for word. _What do you believe in, Solas?_

“Cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist… I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity. I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people.”

It did not help to think that he was right.

****

She walked around the second path. This one was simpler; it wove around three archers. It felt like battling nightly demons: a necessary path to walk, but one she could do in her sleep.

The third was something else: a double path, connected, complex. It made her think of dragons (wild, duplicitous) again, and thinking of dragons was disturbing.

They’d killed three before the Mistral: in Lady Shayna’s Valley; outside Fairel’s tomb; and close by the Abyss. _A purity in such undiluted power,_ had said Solas. And yet they had agreed: _these ones must die, to bring order out of chaos and protect the rest of Thedas._ She thought of it as practice for the one she dreaded most, the one linked to Corypheus. The one that had flown screaming at them not an hour since, straight after they had seen Corypheus die. And rise again. Oh gods… oh gods.

She stumbled, and the magic faded. She’d have to start again. Best not to think of Corypheus.

Instead she made herself think of Mythal. Not as a metaphor for motherhood or justice, but as someone who might have actually existed. And might still exist. She thought: _Vir_ _dirth’ena enasalin. What would she think of me?_ She thought of the ancient sentinels they’d fought: taller, with Mythal’s vallaslin. An older pattern but still recognisable. And Solas, angry, speaking of Mythal and the other gods to Morrigan or her: _you admit lack of knowledge yet dismiss her so readily?_ _The elven gods existed, but they were not gods. Never mistake the Dalish for arbiters of true elvhen culture._

What in Void’s name was she then? The statues (stone, or gold, or bronze; and everywhere) hid Mythal’s face and ears within a pointed helmet, but they had dragon wings.

She remembered the statue in Din’an Hanin with a skull atop its severed neck, and shuddered, but controlled herself in time. If she took any longer, Cassandra would lose patience and drag her back to chase Samson's Red Templars through tunnels underneath this complex. _Indomitable focus, Virla._

A sigh of relief as the final ritual was complete. How odd that some mosaics had survived, and others were in poor condition. She wondered if there would be chance to return here later and explore, if time allowed. Solas was sitting on a log, gazing at a blackened mural. Had he, for once, forgotten all about Corypheus? Usually it was he who was the first to focus them upon their purpose, but now it was Cassandra, all but dragging him away. _Soldiers are dying outside, Solas,_ she muttered.

****

The rituals unlocked a door that led into a larger chamber: untouched, unspoilt and whole. Virla walked into the centre of room, listening to the echo of her footsteps, then felt a rippling in the Veil.

“We’re being watched,” she said, not turning round.

No footsteps, just the sound of quiet breathing. More defenders of the Temple, and she must assume that they had weapons ready. Bows, perhaps, or knives? Her attention was caught by a man upon the balcony, who stood with folded arms, commanded them to stop. _Venavis._

“You are unlike the other invaders. You have the features of those who call themselves elvhen. You bear the mark of magic which is… familiar.” He paused, and she felt the Anchor pulse with magic. “How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

She explained they were her enemies, and he gave his name as Abelas: _we wake only to fight_.

Then Virla looked more closely at him. He had yellow eyes like Morrigan, was tall like Solas. Had Mythal’s vallaslin. And yet she knew that he could not be Dalish.

“So… you’re elves from ancient times? From before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?”

“The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. We elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over. We awake only when called, and each time find the world more foreign than before. It is meaningless. We endure. The Vir’Abelasan must be preserved.”

Another thing the Dalish had got wrong. Her head spun, but her mind was not on Arlathan, nor on the Vir’Abelasan, the Well of Sorrows, but on the man who stood behind her. The sound of quiet breathing. His words echoing within her mind: _And now, I must endure. An elven skirmish? In a manner of speaking. Spires of crystal twining through the trees… that is what was lost._

But now was not the time to turn and let him see she knew, while bows were trained upon them.

Instead, she simply said: “Solas, perhaps he’ll listen to you.”

Virla fancied she could feel his anguish as he spoke. “What shall I say, Inquisitor? Shall I sway him from millennia of service by virtue of our shared blood? He clings to what remains of his world because he lacks the power to restore it.”

Much later, she’d remember this as well.

****

She stood beside the Vir’Abelasan, and listened. Abelas had recognised Solas as elvhen, though the others had not recognised the nuance. Said the well would bind whoever drank from it as he and the other sentinels had all been bound. Said Mythal had been murdered, and yet that she might still exist. That the Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder; she had been betrayed by those who had destroyed the temple. Solas had said: _Mythal endures._ Had somehow freed Abelas from duty. Said that there were other places, other duties: your people yet linger. Here, or in the Fade?

Sera had not wanted them to do the rituals or ally with the elves, and thought the Well should simply be destroyed. Cassandra thought it was too great a risk for her to take as the Inquisitor, to drink from it. Solas feared Corypheus would drink it if they didn’t, but would not go near it.

She listened to her heart, still beating fast from running through the temple, tracing veilfire runes and memorising icons. From fighting Samson: thank Dagna for that disc that broke his armour. Corypheus had not wanted to drink from the Well himself, but had brought (or bought) a Vessel. Samson said it carried wisdom, could let Corypheus walk into the Fade, with no need for an Anchor.

_Power’s all well and good, until it’s taken away. Cassandra’s right: I cannot take this risk._

She could not help but hear the well: the throbbing, greedy magic of it. She told herself that she was marked already, in her hand; that she did not need to be beholden to yet another elven god.

Or the same god, twice. _Would Solas tell her, if he knew?_

And she might convince some of the Dalish Keepers that a daughter of Asha’bellanar was worthier of knowledge than the errant fourth mage of a clan that now lived within a human city.

_All that we were. All that we knew. Bound forever to the will of Mythal…_

She indicated Morrigan should drink, and turned away, and tried not to feel jealous.

And if she had met Solas’ eyes, might she have seen… relief?

****

She fought the jealousy as they walked the Crossroads, quick between eluvians, to Skyhold. From what Michel had said, she’d known this place would be less kind to anyone who was not an elf, and Cassandra had indeed found it a struggle. Perhaps the Well helped Morrigan, or perhaps she was simply so enraptured by new knowledge that she did not notice. She commented that she now knew Corypheus’ dragon was not an Archdemon, but that he had created it in emulation of the gods, had invested a part of his being in it. Virla remembered Solas saying, back in Montsimmard: _a replica_. So did the elves’ lost immortality come from a link to dragons too?

And would the knowledge of that now be hers, had she drunk from the Well?

It took a day before the news returned of how the battle had been won by Inquisition forces and Orlais: that Cullen was safe, and Leliana. A few more days, and they returned in person, tired but triumphant. Corypheus had fled the field when they’d gone through the mirror. Virla shuddered: she had seen him _fly_ , and that thought alone haunted her waking moments.

She had avoided Solas. He must now surely guess that his cover could not remain unbroken: she knew that he was elvhen, knew he had been keeping that a secret from her and from the others.

Was he on her side? She thought he was, but doubted.

She’d give him time to paint, and think.

****

He was in the rotunda, painting. She’d gone to plant spindleweed. She told herself it was to help the healers mend the wounded from the Arbor Wilds. But her thoughts were far away in Arlathan.

Delighted laughter echoed off the walls. Morrigan, of course.

The woman had no tact. She marvelled at how brilliantly she could understand the ancient elven language, the nuance, cadence, rhythms, visions. Virla gritted teeth and listened.

But then she got to the point: _to match Corypheus’ dragon we must summon Mythal. There is an altar in the Wilds…_ Best to travel by eluvian. Best to travel just with elves.

And therefore the Inquisitor would have to talk with Solas.

  
  
  
  



	24. Blight caps smothered mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Careless consumption of blightcap mushrooms has been known to cause insanity, severe abdominal cramping, or even death. – The Botanical Compendium

She’d let him finish painting. Only if Corypheus were actually at the gates of Skyhold would she have interrupted him and ruined the _sa’vunin_. It had to be complete within the time the _el’sethnu’las_ dried, or else be scraped entirely from the wall and started over.

Virla went to talk with Sera, who had moved from fear to some kind of Glory Age Andrastian gloating over the ruin of the Temple, the self-destruction of the ancient elves. _Creaky old Abelas in Mythal._

“If this is a joke, I don’t get it,” sighed Virla.

Sera and Solas had talked more than she’d expected on the journey southward, moving beyond bickering to something like a grudging respect, or so she’d thought. They’d all laughed about the lizards in his bedroll, after he’d poked fun at Sera’s love of fighting dragons. He (and Virla) were far too used to sleeping wild for it to matter before they plunged into the Fade together.

She’d avoided him at nights as well since they’d returned, let him make of that what he would.

She sat down beside Sera, and while the archer poured drinks for them (no blood lotus this time), thought again about all of his conversations in a different light. Assume he were an ancient elf, awoken some time recently from slumber. Not certain who was friend and who was foe.

 _You see injustice, Sera. Don’t you want to replace it with something better? / What, just lop off the top? What does that do, except make a new top to frig it all up? / I… forgive me. You are right. You are fine as you are. / You hurt my head sometimes, Solas. / Yes, I have been known to do that._ And: _she is… apart from herself. / The furthest from what you were meant to be._

Shadows wearing vallaslin. Shadows… and reflections. Features of the elvhen. Something missing?

Virla looked at her reflection in the goblet filled with blood-red wine, and listened.

“A big old temple full of demon-worshipping lies,” continued Sera. “I believe the stuff not made up by dead people who failed. Mythal is a _ruin_ full of _demons_. I mean, it just makes sense, right?”

Sera looked confused, as if she actually wanted Virla to convince her of it all, and not vice versa.

“Everything in that Temple was highly suspect,” agreed Virla, thinking of the disturbing power of the Well and the dragon-lady statues. She was slipping into someone else’s habit of lying by omission.

She explained that Morrigan needed them to go with her, back to the Arbor Wilds.

Sera choked. “To summon Mythal?”

“You said it yourself: fighting shite with shite. More weird power to fight Corypheus’ dragon.”

A smile flickered on her lips, an almost real one. If she had drunk from the Well could she have even said such things about Mythal? And yet: _you admit lack of knowledge yet dismiss her so readily?_ _The Mother: protective and fierce. More than that I will not say._ Will not, or could not?

She drained the goblet: it tasted of fire and Chantry incense. She’d talk to him first thing tomorrow.

****

But when she woke, having spent the night re-reading anything that she could find about Mythal, she found she’d lost her nerve again. Once said, it could not be unsaid: _so how old are you, really?_

Some shy and girlish part of her was whispering: _if he loved you surely he would realise you guessed, and tell you first, and make it easy for you?_

She imagined her reflection glaring at herself. _Don’t be a fool, da’len._

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan took command, and walked down to ask Josephine to send messages to him and Loranil and Sera: _meet by the eluvian in two hours’ time; bring weapons and the best route to the Arbor Wilds._ Best get it over with.

****

Bringing Loranil, an idealistic Dalish, was not exactly a mistake. It was working as she’d planned: he was asking all the questions she would once have asked, and getting all the sharp responses too, from Morrigan and Sera. And yet it was perhaps too sharp, to see his awe as they approached the sunlit forest altar: an awe that she would still have shared a few short months ago. She watched the Dalish boy take in wreaths of crimson leaves around the dragons, lilac flower crown around the statue’s winged helmet. He saw only Mythal as protector, just and kind; ignored the dragon wings.

She still did not meet Solas’ eyes. Perhaps from courtesy to her, or something else, he’d remained silent through the hour’s walk within the Crossroads. She knew he’d earned Briala’s trust and in the last few days had been allowed the password to this part of the network. He’d been allowed to share the password with Virla too, had let her listen while he whispered: _Fen’Harel enansal._ She’d wondered if it was a subtle slur upon the Dalish, for Briala to have chosen that. She’d have to ask.

Morrigan had known about the network too: indeed it had been why Celene had wanted her to help her study them, to work for her against Briala. Virla expected to have to defend her decision not to share the password with her, but Morrigan was far too focused on the voices in her head these days.

They walked on to the altar steps, dwarfed by the statues’ size. Mythal stood twenty feet at least, and the dragons flanking her were twice that size again. Larger dragons hid within the trees.

“’Tis all that remains of the great altar,” said Morrigan, then began a recitation: “ _We few who travel far, call to me, and I will come. Without mercy, without fear._ ”

“ _Cry havoc in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear,_ ” completed Solas, from behind them. Fear tingled down her spine. “A very old invocation, perfectly translated.”

“Why, thank you,” smiled Morrigan, while Virla suppressed her shiver at the cadence of his voice. She wondered why there had not been such an altar in the Temple of Mythal, and said as much.

“The temple was a place of justice; this is different. It’s where the elves called to her. Spoke to her.”

“Then one day she disappeared,” said Morrigan, “and there was no-one with whom to speak.”

She indicated their companions would have to stay out of sight, but need not go too far. Virla stared her down for a moment, before accepting it and nodding to the others. Her gaze briefly locked with Solas’ eyes, before he turned away. Nothing to discern by staring at him. They’d have to talk when they got back: her duty as Inquisitor to ask, and damn the consequences for the woman.

The magic Morrigan controlled was greenish-blue: a water magic from the Well? She looked almost girlishly excited as she performed the summoning. Virla decided she felt… numb. Thinking was far easier than feeling, since feeling would require she had decided what to feel.

But it was Asha’bellanar that came in waves of wispy smoke, apparently from nowhere, and she carried Mythal, the part that still remained: a wisp that still sought justice. Morrigan was horrified: her mother was Mythal? The one who'd stolen daughters’ bodies through the ages had once more tricked another? Virla watched as Mythal’s bright blue magic suppressed Morrigan’s attempts to cast, and found herself reminded of another trickster god, a wolf whose statues lived in Mythal’s temple.

Asha’bellanar-Mythal walked up and turned to Virla. “So young and vibrant. You do the People proud and have come far. As for me, I have had many names, but you… may call me Flemeth.”

What she knew of Asha’bellanar did truly fit with Flemeth’s story of Mythal: she found that she believed it, even without Morrigan confirming that the voices from the Well agreed. Virla found herself pleading with the woman, asking why the elves’ prayers to Mythal through many ages had remained unanswered. _What was could not be changed. You know not what you ask, child._

 _Da’len. Vhenan._ She was startled by the realisation Solas saw her as an equal… not a child. Yet he was surely older than this Flemeth born within the Towers Age, if he remembered Arlathan, had fought within its war. A flush of happiness overlaid the numbness, unbidden, unrelated to Mythal.

She found herself wondering why this woman had been chosen: “Why did Mythal come to you?”

“For a reckoning that will shake the very heavens. It is because I taught you, girl,” she said, looking at Morrigan with narrowed yellow eyes, “because things happened which were not supposed to happen. She was betrayed, as I was betrayed… as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!”

Her angry movements, the sudden snarling, reminded Virla of a dragon clawing, crawling: she’d seen enough close up to recognise it now. She remembered Hawke and Leliana’s tales of Asha’bellanar transforming to a dragon. And her crown reminded Virla of something too, if she could only place it.

Then the resemblance faded into simple sorrow: “Alas, so long as the music plays, we dance.”

And something clicked. “This meeting was no accident, was it?”

“Clever girl.”

****

_A legend called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning._

They stepped out of the eluvian and she followed Solas through to the rotunda. The penultimate _sa’vunin_ glistened. A graceful arch, with guardians. A shapely curve with rippling blue lines, topped off with a symbol she had seen elsewhere… within the Winter Palace in a painting?

Solas came to stand between her and the painting; broke the silence first. _Truth, or more omissions?_

“The Temple of Mythal was extraordinary. In all my journeys, I never dreamed of finding anything like it. What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?”

She met his eyes, found them deathly serious. Reassuring that he believed Morrigan could indeed now match the dragon; that she could defeat the ancient magister where the Champion had failed.

“I’ll use whatever power I have to undo the chaos that Corypheus and his allies have caused.”

“You would put things back the way they were before?”

“Yes. I mean, not exactly…”

He smiled. “I know what you mean. Thank you.”

“For what?” He seemed to think she meant something specific: _Before… how far before?_

But he’d moved on. “You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have… impressed me. You honour the past and work to recover what was lost, even if the cost is high. I respect that, and I am indebted to you for the reminder. Forgive my melancholy. Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power... that at least we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may yet survive.”

Was he trying to imply he knew she knew? She tried to convey a message with her eyes: she knew his secrets, loved him nonetheless. “Whatever comes, I will have _you_ by my side.”

He moved as if to go, gestured for her to follow him. “Come with me, _vhenan_.”

****

They’d gone to the eluvian again, walked briskly through the network, silent, holding hands, as Virla gazed up at the rainbow sky. Mere minutes later they’d emerged in… Crestwood, in a passage that led to the wyvern hole. The Veil was thin: she could feel his emotions in it and through the hand that clasped hers tightly. Nervous, just like her; turning desire to purpose once again: to tell her… what?

Without the wyvern, in the moonlight, the reflections of the two stone harts shone clear and white. She wondered if this place was sacred to the elvhen; special to him for some other reason; or just somewhere convenient and quiet. Away from Skyhold… Skyhold, where he’d led her to. His pawn.

She had a moment’s trepidation: should she have told someone where she’d gone?

Virla shrugged away the fear as groundless: if he meant harm to her right now, surely she would feel it. She looked up to his eyes as they held hands beside the pool; could see nothing there but love. He put a hand up to her cheek and gently stroked it, smiling softly down at her.

It reminded her that he had only kissed her once for real: so many times within the Fade, but nothing physical save that. _Things have always been… easier for me in the Fade,_ he’d said. One more statement that she’d put down to a solitary life, and not to cultural dislocation. _So clever, Solas._

“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me,” he said, and she responded lightly, listening as he continued: “For now, the best gift I can offer is… the truth.”

A sudden wave of relief broke through the numbness she’d endured for days; she looked down at her feet to hide the tears that threatened to fall upon her hands entwined with his.

“You are unique,” he said slowly, selecting his words carefully as always. She looked back up at him, wondering if he saw the unshed tears within her eyes, or felt the trembling of her hands, or in the Veil. “In all Thedas I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”

“As you are to me,” she whispered. It felt like the first time making this confession, now she knew.

But then there was a subtle shift within the Veil, a prickling that alerted her: he was about to turn and run; he’d lost his nerve. He tried to hide it, talked about the _vallaslin._ Said that they had been used as slave marks in ancient Arlathan. She pretended that her hurt was about him reminding her that the Dalish had got so much wrong. He apologised, and offered to remove the markings with a spell.

Bewildered, she decided to accept the offer: slavery was wrong, and he surely was not lying about this at least. If _vallaslin_ were linked to something like the _geas_ that Morrigan now suffered, linked to Mythal, to dragons, she wanted no reminder of that on her face. A clean slate. Nothing. Freedom.

He looked confused, and sad, as well. “I’m so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are… and you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”

He bade her sit, and bathed her face in shining magic. Said _ar lasa mala revas_ , and then they stood. Still holding hands. She suddenly realised that he had seen her as a _slave_ all through this year.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her. Hope flickered in her heart.

Delicate and reverent. A second time. For real.

He held her close, his arms around her, hers around his, clinging.

She tried to hold it in her memory: the scent of elfroot, the gentleness and love she felt, knowing already, somehow, that the moment would be over all too soon. Even for her, a "Dalish" mayfly.

Time almost stopped.

And then he stopped instead, lifting his head to gaze down at her. He looked so sad. And even older than before. She saw their future written in his eyes: desperation, loneliness and dread.

He’d been kissing her goodbye.

She felt the panic rising, kept in check till now, but not much longer.

_No. Not now. Oh gods, no._

_Don’t turn away!_

 

  
  



	25. The ghoul in the windmill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghoul is a living creature (bereskarn, blight wolf, Red Templar) who contracts the darkspawn taint and manages to survive. Ghoul’s beard is hardly useful, unless you want to kill someone, ruin their minds, or some ghastly combination of the two. A windmill is a combination of checks forcing the opponent to lose pieces. The ghost in the machine refers to the idea that there is a fundamental distinction between mind and matter: an idea which has been heavily critiqued by philosophers as a category mistake. Physical reality is not the same as mental reality, even in the Fade.

He’d gone.

Inquisitor Lavellan fell. She shattered into twenty million pieces: a tainted, twisted mirror for each person. Each jagged shard a sharp. Reflection of her pain.

She could not bear to feel her own pain any more. Instead, she’d only watch herself through others.

****

**Virlath, dirth’ena enasalin (Fen’sulevin)**

My purpose is to keep the demons from her. I protect her. She sparkles, shimmers; sings with magic. There are always demons who desire her, want to make her fear them, love them. I persuade them they ought not; she is too strong and beautiful for them. I know he loves her strength and beauty too. She shines with love for him, and he reflects it. But then he walks away. She falls down on the ground and cries, her body shaking. I’m not clever like Sophiyel was, not good at reading minds like Cole. But Virlath’s despair is like a torrent raging, flooding through the place where I am bound.

I drink from it and feel my purpose strengthen. This is why he told me to protect her.

From the demons. From herself. From him. If she comes inside the Fade without a shield, there’ll be too many demons here. The Veil is thin. Here is a greater demon of a despair. It is too strong for me, but I will die before it takes her. I call, although I don’t know if she hears me: _Then ma! Then ma!_

She lifts her head and catches sight of it. I think she was expecting this, because she lifts her hands to cast a spell and blasts it into smithereens. I didn’t know that word, but now I do.

Despair’s replaced by rage, and then by fear and pride. We fight them off together.

And then she whispers _Caritas_. We’re standing by a mirror. She walks into the place where I can’t follow. The demons drift away. I will watch for her here. I always watch for her. It is my purpose.

****

**Virla, in whose mind I dwell (Caritas)**

I watch her stumble through the mirror: red-eyed, lonely. The room is dimly lit tonight to try to make the place more homely, hide the unfamiliar. She’s just been kissed by moonlight, after all. I invite her to sit down and offer her a glass of wine, pretend that it’s Tevinter (Silent Plains Piquette). Though we both know that’s a lie. There’s a cake upon the table, melting in the dark with sweet green icing.

She doesn’t know.

I tell her that there’s nothing I can do. I’ve searched and searched. He always leaves her.

I offer her a slice of cake to match the tepid wine, and she refuses. She wipes away the tears with a furious hand, and asks me what would happen if she turned back time, or if she kept the _vallaslin_.

I tell her that it’s not that. It’s not her fault. She could be angry, stoic, supportive, tearful… and still he would have left. She goes through all these anyway: I show her in the mirror what he’d say.

**_And I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again._ **

_Wait. What? I say no to you altering my face, and just like that we’re done? / It’s not that. **I’m sorry.** I should have ended this long before. I never wanted to hurt you. / Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we? – Banal’abelas, banal’vhenan! – Everyone makes mistakes._

_Wait. What? You bring me here, take the vallaslin from my face, and now you just end it? / **I’m sorry.** I never wanted to hurt you. _

_Solas… / Please, vhenan. / Don’t leave me, not now. I love you. / You have a rare and marvellous spirit. In another world… / Why not this one? / I… can’t. **I’m sorry.**_

_All right. If that’s your decision, so be it. / **I’m sorry.** I never wanted to hurt you. _

_Tell me you don’t care. / I can’t do that. / Tell me I was some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold-hearted son of a bitch and move on! / **I’m sorry.**_

_I’m not giving up on you, Solas. / You truly should. / Whatever you need, we can find together. / No, we can’t. You’ll see._

**_I will see you back at Skyhold._ **

She seems less surprised by all these choices than I had expected. She says that spirits press against the Veil with visions of events that might be, as well as memories of those events that actually did.

Eventually she nods, and says: _I chose the best response I could, I think_. She asks if I can see the future. I explain that I can only see a little way; I won’t tell her how long in case it changes things.

She nods again, and smiles a bitter smile. _Thank you for the cake,_ she says. She didn’t eat it.

****

**The woman that he told me to protect (Requisition Officer Baudin, Three Trout Farm Camp)**

I put a hand upon her shoulder. Try to wake her. At first she doesn’t wake, and I don’t know what to do. The red templars are out on patrol. Soon they will return. Her face is hidden from me on the ground, but I can see her ears: an elf, like he was. Might I need to carry her? I try again to wake her.

This time she wakes, and lifts her face up from the grass. Maker’s breath! It’s the Herald of Andraste. Her face is different, somehow, from what I remember when she stayed here months ago. Paler somehow. Maybe it’s the moonlight. This woman brought the sunlight back to Crestwood.

Andraste. She remembers my name. She sits up, staff in hand, and tells me she’ll go straight back to Skyhold once she’s seen me to the camp. I say that it is I who was asked to protect _her_ , and suddenly she stands up, straightens. Explains that was an order. Not to question. When I see how easily she kills those templar bastards on the way I know the Maker truly is with her, and I no longer fear.

****

**Inquisitor Lavellan (Loranil)**

I’m still sitting in the garden, trying to decide what I should do, when she reappears. I’d seen them go into the room with the eluvian, but when Solas returned alone, and looking really sad, I wondered what had happened with Lavellan. Everyone says they’re lovers, that he’d do anything for her. But I think it’s strange that she prefers someone who’s not a Dalish. And he’s really old. I don’t trust him.

Lavellan walks quickly, graceful as a halla. I know she sees me, but she doesn’t look at me. She thinks I’m just a boy. Perhaps one day she’ll see I’m not, and look at me the way she looks at him.

 _Fenedhis!_ What happened to her _vallaslin_?

****

**The one I must now call Inquisitor (Solas)**

I’m cold as ice and hard as stone to her. I’ll not allow myself to show even the relief I feel to see her safely back. _Inquisitor_ , I say, too quickly, _how may I help you prepare for our final battle?_

“I’d like to discuss what happened before, Solas,” she says. _Misguided, but inevitable._

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters. Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus.”

I want her to hate me, to be angry. To move on from me. And yet… I know she won’t. She can’t.

And I can’t either. And she knows that too.

She looks scornfully at me, then sighs. “It would help me if you could explain why.”

My voice breaks very slightly, but I cover it. “The answers would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us. The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me. Let that be enough.”

She continues nonetheless. “Will you talk to me when we are finished with Corypheus?”

“If we are both still alive afterward, then I promise you, that everything will be made clear.”

She nods, accepting even this as progress, and turns as if to go, but comes back, not too close, and looks into my eyes. “You really don’t let anybody see under that polite mask you wear, do you?”

I want to tell her this is all a dream, tell her everything, but I can’t. I can’t. _I can’t._

“You saw more than most,” is all I _can_ say. The mask is moulded to my face so tightly it won’t let me get another word out.

She stares at me for another half a minute. She’s so beautiful without the _vallaslin_. I can’t breathe.

At last she goes.

****

**Inky (Sera)**

Stuff given to Dagna, had some drinks, come out and see Inky walking up the Hall. She looks like a bear ate her face, no wait, bare-faced, that’s it. Her elfy dealies are gone. Ask her why. Solas told her they were slave markings. Pfft. That’s funny. Dalish are tits in fancy dress. Nobody knows anything about real elves, except they’re gone. She agrees with me it’s stupid. Think she just said that to get rid of me. All those faces. That’s just funny. _Hey, Bull, look at Inky!_

****

**Boss (The Iron Bull)**

Dorian and I were in the library. Was about to have him up against the wall when I heard the door to the rotunda. _I thought he was with Virla_ , whispered mage boy. We crept to the balcony and looked down. Solas, but no Virla. He was shaking. Then he just sat down in his chair and closed his eyes. Something was wrong, but with a man like Solas you don’t get anywhere by asking.

Dorian gestured at me: _let’s go to yours_ , and I said _sure._ A couple hours later he was sleeping. I went back to the Hall. I’d decided that I’d ask him where the Boss was, make some story up. But then I saw her in the Hall with Sera. She was shaking too. Her face was blank. Something was very wrong.

I got rid of Sera, told her Josephine was looking for her. Took Boss up to her room. Went and got that brandy that she keeps inside her desk. Told her that she had to tell someone what happened, or she’d crack. I’d guessed most of it anyway. Drank most of the brandy. Pissed with Solas. She told me not to be, that whatever reason he had, it was like the Qun for him. I said he fucking hates the Qun. I’d make him Tal-Vashoth for her. She giggled, then she cried. A lot. Told me that she loves him. She’ll find a way to get him back. Okay. I still want to punch his face.

Suggested that we go to Storm Coast. Clear the Templars out. Fight some dragons. Take Dorian for me, and Cole for her. She was weeping, crazy: _they call it an Archdemon, but it’s just a dragon._

We left at dawn. I told Dorian we were not to mention Solas. Promised her I’d only tell him that.

****

**Virla (Dorian)**

Something had happened between Virla and Solas. Bull said not to ask, she’d got to work her way through it just like she’d done before. I wondered why he’d said we should bring Cole. He kept muttering, in that strange way he has of reading minds: _It’s over. It’s over. We’re done._

She pretended that her tears were rain. I tried to distract her with stories of Tevinter. Bull talked of jobs the Chargers did. In one dragon’s hoard was a lovely dagger, hilt from Seheron, wyvern tooth, enchanted to pull towards the heart. Or so Cole said. She looked thoughtful. When we went south to Crestwood, to kill the dragon there, she said _the wyvern hole_ , and so I told her everything I knew of wyverns. Maker knows if it did any good. She said that the statues near the dragon’s lair were like the black one in Elandrin’s tomb. I said Andraste tamed one of them by singing, and she sighed.

****

**You / Virla (Cole)**

Couldn’t find the key. Solas always checked the bodies. So thorough, so precise. He’s crying in the library, the old one. Set wards and locked the door. His hurt touches hers. She can’t escape. They met near here. They came through the eluvian. I’ll go that way. _Fen’Harel enansal._ She’s asleep. She doesn’t know.

I tell him that I don’t know how to help her. She’s split into a thousand shards, he has to come.

She’s sitting by the shore, shaking, shivering. Staring at a sunken head. Andraste. She’s thinking of the other one: Mythal. And Flemeth’s crown. He doesn’t want to look at her. I don’t know why.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas._ You are so beautiful. But then you walked away. Why?”

He says he had no choice. I tell him that she doesn’t know. She needs me to go on. He wants me to stop. I tell her that his hurt is from an old pain from before, when everything sang the same. I tell her that she’s real, that that means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can’t.

I can see them sleeping, hiding, hurting, masked in a mirror… and to wake them? Then it all goes somewhere else, and Solas says he’s sorry.

I feel sorry for them too.

****

**The woman that I always pray for (Cullen)**

I’m in the Chantry, praying for us all. The Herald comes in silently, and kneels, staring at Andraste’s crown. I finish and ask her what she’s thinking. She says: _the Canticle of Shartan_. _Leliana as Divine._

****

**Lady of the Skies (Varric)**

We’re drinking shots of Aqua Magus in the Herald’s Rest. It’s a quiet table on the upper floor.

“Varric, do you remember in the Hinterlands, we were looking at the old windmill in Redcliffe, and what Solas said? _That windmill has weathered a great deal._ _I am impressed it still remains standing._ ”

She does a surprisingly good impression of him when she's had a bit to drink. Must remember to put that in the book.

“The one that was attacked by darkspawn? In the Blight?”

“Yes. I wonder if he feels like that. Empathy with windmills, not with people.”

I’ve no idea what in Andraste’s flaming pyre she’s on about, but remind myself she’s trying to be heroic. I tell her again she’s got divine bad luck, and she actually chuckles.

I’ll manage not to use that word when I finally write this up.

  
  
  



	26. Dragonthorn endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Within the carcass of the Abyssal High Dragon, we found cysts of hardened flesh. Naturally, of course, we cut into the cyst. The flesh within was blighted. Dragons can stem the spread of the blight within their own bodies. They cannot do this indefinitely, as the existence of Corypheus’ dragon suggests, but they are more resistant than other creatures. – Report, Frederic of Serault

They were on the battlements at night: Cole and Virla. Varric had gone to bed: _sleep well, kids._ Virla wondered if he’d ever get over Bianca, ever have a family of his own. She’d heard that dwarves were dying out, children ever harder to conceive. Another consequence of the Blight.

And of course Solas was right: the Blight and Corypheus were what truly mattered. Not her fractured heart or mind. She had to keep on going. Not for him, not for herself, but for the world.

At some point in the evening she’d come to a decision: from tomorrow onwards, she’d only think about him for a single hour each morning. The rest of the day she’d spend as the Inquisitor. It would provide a framework: a wooden structure within which she could try to reconstruct her self-eluvian, determine what was really going on. Decide what she believed and so decide what she could feel.

 _Void take this mark,_ thought Virla, allowing herself some anger. _If it weren’t for that, if I weren’t a mage, if there weren’t so many demons, I could let rip. But it’s too dangerous to lose control._

She realised there was nothing more she wanted in that moment than to find Corypheus and blast him to the Void. _I promise you that everything will be made clear. If we’re alive, that is._

She added another aspect to her plan: spend an hour each day doing Qunari training exercises with the Chargers. Bull was easily strong enough to take her rage, if it were purely physical. And until they could find Corypheus’ base, the only other thing to do was practise killing dragons, and close the few rifts that remained. Mind shaping the body into the perfect weapon: _dirth’ena enasalin._

And hope that Morrigan was right, that Corypheus would stay dead this time. She allowed herself a brief moment of fear: what if he kept arising, she had to keep on killing him, forever?

“Corypheus died, and then he didn’t,” said Cole, from under his hat. “That’s why he always felt wrong, like he didn’t fit inside himself. He wears another man’s life. I thought dying was forever.”

“It’s hard for any of us to make sense of. Corypheus is using ancient magic.”

“But is it him? Is he real? If a man can be dead, and then not… could I have saved the real Cole?”

“Corypheus is using his connection to the Blight to make himself immortal. You couldn’t do that.”

“His hands were bruised from beating on the wall. It was dark like the cabinet where he hid to escape his father. His belly hurt like knives, throat cracked dry. He was alone. I pushed through and held his hand. It was all I could do. He said _thank you._ ” He sighed, and turned to Virla. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that. Virla thought how hard compassion is, feeling others’ pain, when you can’t wash clean of it or slip into the Fade. How it needs the guiding hand of wisdom.

Yet what “Divine Justinia” said was right: without pain and failure, we can’t grow.

****

Next day she tried to use the hurt to grow. After sentencing Samson to questioning by Cullen, and agreeing that Inquisition scholars might visit archives in Minrathous for information on the Well of Sorrows, Virla went to the rotunda and asked just about Corypheus. After all, how many other ancient experts on the Fade did she have in Skyhold?

“You have waylaid all his other plans,” said Solas, putting his book to one side and frowning up at her. “Now, as a petulant child, he will destroy the game board rather than admit defeat. Be ready for anything. He still believes himself a god, and gods do not fall gracefully.”

Inquisitor Lavellan found herself asking him if he would travel to Orlais with them and kill the dragons there with Bull and Dorian, protect the Inquisition camps and villagers nearby. She forced her voice to be steady as she said: _You’re my friend._ _Take another tent, so you don’t have to share._

She rationalised it to herself: if we happen on Corypheus, he’ll want to be there.

And travelling without him hadn’t helped. It was cruel to think about his promise that all would be made clear after Corypheus’ death. In her sacred hour that morning she had thought about it once again: it meant that his duty was linked somehow to the orb, or to Corypheus himself. Of those choices she preferred the orb: perhaps he was its guardian, like Abelas had stayed to guard the well?

She’d also realised that was why he’d shown her that he could remove the _vallaslin_. He could have been a servant of the elven god whose orb it was, and had woken when the orb was stolen, fight for its return. But why had he removed his _vallaslin_ , and when? A bid for freedom, millennia ago? Did the spell only remove the markings but not the _geas_ underneath? She couldn’t imagine him working _for_ Corypheus, though the man had once had elven slaves, if you believed the writing in the Fade. She’d met Mythal; had she been involved in giving Corypheus the orb? Morrigan wasn’t sure either.

Of course, another option was that Solas was himself an elven god, and the orb belonged to him.

Creators, or Forgotten One? Several theories there. The hour was up. She’d think on _that_ another time. But it was another reason not to leave him here at Skyhold. Tiny scraps of information she might glean from conversations could prove useful. And, since she wasn’t telling anyone about her theories, it would salve her conscience to be watching him herself, not delegating that to Leliana.

****

They were standing in the snow, sweating from the hard work of killing Kaltenzahn. Dorian had alternated grumbling about the cold with singing paeans to the history of Thedas. The Pools of the Sun linked to Elgar’nan. She thought about Solas’ appreciation of Maddox’s tools; his art, the artefact they’d found within the walls of the arena. Was he some kind of craftsman linked to June?

Her reverie was interrupted, not unpleasantly, by Dorian continuing his theme. She felt a thrill of excitement as she clambered over the huge snow-covered boulders and back down to the path. Now she knew how hard Solas worked to keep his cover, she listened hard to every single word.

“We found elves, living _ancient_ elves, at the Temple of Mythal. Does that bother you, Solas?”

“I’m pleased we were not forced to kill them, if that’s what you mean.”

Dorian shook his head. “I mean, them being there at all. Thousands of years later, and they live. There could be others, in ruins we haven’t yet discovered. Shouldn’t we be looking for them?”

Solas shrugged, not committing either way. “Perhaps Abelas will do that.”

The Tevinter mage looked thoughtful. “Hmm. I wonder if that’s a good thing.”

Bull was staring into space, but Virla knew that he was listening just as hard as she was. Perhaps once these dragons had been killed she should mix the group again. Despite all of Solas’ recent actions, she still loved him. And if his cover was at risk, it might drive him to extremes.

Or Bull might actually punch him in the face.

She stooped to gather arbor blessing (if I’m hungry, this is not the winter) and stood up, flashing Dorian a smile. “Come on, there’s just one more dragon here, and then it’s time for wine.”

Bull roared. “Let’s find the dragon!”

“You are far too pleased about this,” muttered Dorian, but his face had softened. He flicked snow off his purple sleeves. “Look, there’s a Fade rift. Let’s do that first, shall we?”

There was another shard as well. Six more to go, and she’d open up the last door within Solasan.

****

Virla was dreaming, frozen cold snowscape. There was a game board, a battle to win. A sudden flood of memory: Bull and Solas playing chess. She could see them in the Fade, months earlier.

“I’ve got my whole army bearing down on your king, and you’re moving… a pawn.” Bull sighed. “Are you even trying anymore?”

“Think about it, my friend,” said Pride. He lifted his head and winked at her.

Fen’sulevin was hiding, wolf in the shadows, whispering warnings she did not now need. She sighed and reached for her staff. Pride was always harder to detect. She wondered yet again when he had chosen that particular name. Was she the sacrificial queen? The pawn? What might lie in Solasan?

_Demon's dead. Focus. Be the Inquisitor. Virlath only lives for just one hour each day, and this is not it._

She returned to reading Hard in Hightown. For the seventh time.

****

Fighting dragons was always exhausting, but the Stormrider in the Crow Fens had been the worst. Electric magic had crackled from its scales, sending shockwaves through the murky water. Virla had got used to the scale and heat of dragons, but that one had set her nerves alight, much like the magic of the Anchor when it flared too wildly. It chased them with bolts of purple static. After its death, she’d walked to the nearby Shrine of Fen’Harel, and offered up some dragon webbing. Two pairs of wolves: two white; two black. Two pairs of twins. And weathered, like a windmill.

But not enough shards for Solasan. Virla went south, explained to Keeper Hawen about Taven, Din’an Hanin and the history she had found about Red Crossing, then turned back to Skyhold. She was careful that the helm she wore hid her lack of _vallaslin_ , was grateful Loranil had not had time to tell his clan. That truth would need to be confronted later, if she were alive to tell it.

****

Virla was in the war room when it finally started: the flaring of the Anchor; the Breach open again over the Valley of Sacred Ashes. She was planning to have Bull and Dorian and Solas on the front line with her, but Bull had taken her aside and suggested Sera would be better, with her eagerness to battle dragons. He looked oddly embarrassed: _don’t tell Dorian I said so_. She wondered if he sought simply to protect his lover, and felt a sharp pang of envy. No blood lotus gift this time from Solas. She had dragonthorn from Solasan that she’d collected herself; she’d carry that for luck instead.

They rode fast down the mountain paths. The Breach was getting larger by the minute; she didn’t need Morrigan’s reminder that she must close it again or it would swallow the world. But how? The bulk of their forces were in the Arbor Wilds, thinking Corypheus more likely to strike there again.

Corypheus saw them coming, and cut them off, raising pieces of the temple high into the sky, like a strange reversal of the dragon’s destruction of Adamant Fortress. Virla looked up, and saw the Black City floating upside-down: colossal fragments held in tension between the Breach and Thedas.

Morrigan transformed herself into a massive purple dragon, and swooped up from below the temple to tackle Corypheus’ dragon. Virla had to tear her eyes away from the sights of gouging, swooping, spitting flames of lyrium and biting, high up in the Fade-lit skies above. Corypheus was coming for her. Three elves and a Qunari. The peoples with the deepest reasons to despise Tevinter.

 _In my time we called your people “rattus”._ The dragons fell to ground. Morrigan was bleeding, barely conscious, but she’d done sufficient damage to the other dragon. They launched themselves at it with swords and arrows, frost and flame. In some quiet part of her mind, Virla noted that it had no preferred type of primal magic. She told herself: _a replica, a construct. Not a true Archdemon._ They wore it down, until with a final effort, she struck the killing blow, a huge gash opening in its neck. Red blight magic poured out from its head and reassembled where Corypheus hid behind a parapet.

The would-be god of all the world stood up, brandishing the orb. “Let it end here. Let the skies boil. Let the world be rent asunder! Grant me power to finish this last rite.”

They chased him to the topmost tower. The orb was spinning freely now, pink and orange, radiating crimson magic. Corypheus looked no longer mortal: his eyes glowed white and red. Virla looked down in between the slashes of her spirit sword, and realised they were fighting on a mosaic of an elf. Just a head this time, within a circle, outlined in a golden halo. This location was no accident.

Eventually she realised he was weakening, each blast a fraction less intense. Virla felt the Anchor pulse within her hand, and focused all her mind on willing it to claim the orb that had produced it. The magic sparking round the orb began to change from red to green. She focused harder.

Corypheus screamed. “Not like this! I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages… Dumat! Ancient Ones! I beseech you! If you exist, if you ever truly existed… aid me now!”

The orb flew through him, spinning, pulled directly to her hand. Another whisper: _throw it up there_. It sang into the Breach and pulled it back together. She took advantage of the magister’s confusion to open a rift inside him to the Fade, and prayed it scattered him for good this time. Then tension broke and gravity returned. She scrambled out of range of massive masonry and boulders falling from the sky: no barrier that she could cast would stand against the forces that had been unleashed.

A few minutes later, the world had stopped quaking, and she looked up to the sky: just scarred. And then for her companions. Bull and Sera were safe, or at least not badly injured. Where was…

“Solas?”

He was kneeling, with his back to her, crouched over… _of course._ “The orb.”

Somewhere in all the chaos, it had broken past repair. Three black pieces: useless, ugly. He looked broken too. She apologised, and he told her it was not her fault. Then he looked at her again, as if seeing something in her that she couldn’t see inside herself just yet. _I promise it will be made clear…_

She returned the look with a wry smile. _Go on…_ “There’s more, isn’t there?”

He looked up to the heavens, agonized, voice cracking. She saw no mask. “It was not supposed to happen this way. No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had... was real.”

Cassandra calling: _Inquisitor? Are you alive?_ Surely they were cursed by Fate… Mythal, Fen’Harel, or something worse. When Solas didn’t follow her down the steps, she _knew_ he’d really gone this time.

And after the return to Skyhold; tumultuous (and well-deserved) applause; after the report from Leliana (he’s vanished; my agents found no trace of him; Leliana, wait: it’s not just about the orb); after thanking everyone, feeling their relief and joy to be alive; after warding doors and standing on her balcony to watch the dawn, she let herself whisper to the air her grief. _Where are you, Solas?_

In case he listened, somewhere, somehow. _Vhenan, you **promised**. Dirth ma, harellan._

But there was only silence in her heart.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this far, and to those who have left kudos: it's very much appreciated. It’s taken around a hundred hours of play time to make it back to this balcony. I hope you enjoyed my take on it. I have tried to put in everything (dialogue, codices and graphics) that I think is critical to Virla (and Caritas) piecing everything together. The next few chapters will cover Jaws of Hakkon, The Descent and Trespasser DLC, and then we’ll head off into the unknown.


	27. Walk in solitude for ever… right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the defeat of Corypheus, Inquisitor Lavellan turns her attention to the other real problem: the Blight. Herbs and healing magic only go so far. She needs to dig below the surface to find the precious Stone, searching for gems of history within the dross of legends. Everite, perhaps.
> 
> Virla is still desperately seeking Solas. But she only lets herself exist, or feel, for an hour each day.
> 
> A king walk is where the king moves up the board to go on the attack. Appropriate for Solas now.

A week since Corypheus’ defeat, and the Inquisition’s forces had returned. She’d encouraged everyone to stay until tomorrow, and allow her to thank them all in person, one last time together. Many would still be working with the Inquisition: Josephine and Cullen; most of Leliana’s network; some of her companions. The Chargers would maintain their contract, and the army’s size would not shrink immediately. Skyhold still needed cooks and servants, buyers and bartenders.

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan sat at her desk, working through a final draft of the speech. Josie had taken all her usual pains to ensure no-one was forgotten: there were anecdotes about Flissa, Maryden, Master Dennet and Lace Harding, as well as longer tributes to their royal allies, her advisers and companions, not forgetting to include a modest tribute to Josephine herself. It was humorous, reflective, generous and inspiring. And not too long. The Great Hall would be honoured by the presence of the Empress, her cousin Grand Duke Gaspard, Ambassador Briala, Queen Anora of Ferelden and representatives of Tevinter and the dwarven kingdoms, as well as by the many men and women who had served. All here to pay tribute to the virtue of their cause.

Another parchment lay beside the speech: accompanying notes from her ambassador and friend. It listed details still to be decided, ending: _I will leave it to you to decide what you say about Solas._

What would the Inquisitor say? She took a pen and added, quickly:

_I would also like to thank Solas for his contributions: healing, knowledge and inspiration. His fresco stands as a reminder that hope and beauty exist even in our darkest hours._

No need to mention that the last _sa’vunin_ (ruined, executed hastily, and when?) made Virla feel like riding to the Hissing Wastes and howling at the moon. The Inquisitor would never do that.

A wolf triumphant, dragon dead: incomplete, intentional. And final.

She had had to wake up Josephine, to open up the library that morning. Everyone else had slept till long past lunchtime, but she’d sat in the rotunda, locked once more, just staring at it. Numb.

Virla had thought even the Inquisitor might have done that too, and allowed herself an extra hour.

Then she’d heard the voices of two gentlemen, one she knew and one she didn’t. At least someone was awake to talk to. She’d gone to greet Frederic of Serault, just back from Nevarra, and had been introduced to his colleague from the University of Orlais, the archaeologist Bram Kenric. The Inquisitor locked the door behind her, deftly steered them away from the rotunda, and found herself quite easily persuaded that an excursion southwards to the Frostback Basin was an even greater service to the history of Thedas than whatever else she had been up to earlier in the week.

After all, the last thing the _Inquisitor_ would do right now was wait around for Solas.

****

The speech went well, or so they told her. She’d seen Threnn crying, so probably it had.

She said goodbye to Varric and Blackwall, riding to Highever for a ship across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall, with instructions to visit Wycome first and meet with agent Jester. If the politics looked favourable, Virla had given them a letter for Deshanna Istimaethoriel, Clan Lavellan’s Keeper. The Arlathvhen had been scheduled to be held in Dirthavaren earlier in the year, but had been delayed until the winter to avoid the civil war. The Inquisitor would be willing to speak at it and discuss the mysteries the Inquisition had uncovered, if she could be sure that Deshanna and sufficient other Keepers would listen to the reasons for her lack of _vallaslin_. A risk, but one that should be taken.

She suppressed the thought: _would Solas have approved?_ He wasn’t here to argue.

She said goodbye to those departing for Orlais: Leliana was likely to be crowned Divine, and Vivienne had been pleased to have her suggestion that she return to court accepted. Sera had agreed to keep a hundred watchful Jenny eyes upon the other Orlesian players, and provide direct intelligence on Briala and the elven network. Charter was assigned to see if anyone could find a few more shards for Solasan, or locate the three mosaic pieces missing. Cullen, Bull and the Chargers were monitoring Gaspard’s manoeuvres near the border with Nevarra. It was not part of the Inquisition’s plan to support Orlais’ expansionism, but at least he wasn’t threatening Celene. For now.

Josephine would hold the fortress, and make sure that Dagna didn’t blow it up.

Morrigan left through the eluvian, rather than accompanied by it. Virla felt relief, and also gratitude, of sorts. Too different to be friends, and yet each woman knew she owed the other her life. And so the Inquisitor did not ask where Morrigan intended going, so that Morrigan did not have to lie.

And she’d take Cole and Dorian and Cassandra, on the trail of the Inquisitor. Ameridan, this time.

She saddled Mi’nan, and looked for one last time at the fresco of the bear and halla. Dirthamen and Ghilan’nain, or so she’d called them to herself. A sorrowful embrace within the moonlight.

_Please, vhenan. I can’t…_

No. Best to ride and ride and ride, get far and far and far away from here.

****

It was the smell of the sea that made her feel alive again. Virla stood atop the cliffs and watched the waves, while Dorian and Cassandra took their turn at preparing dinner. The Frostback Basin was within a day’s ride now. Her clan had rarely ventured far from the broad blue Amaranthine Ocean, so she’d grown up in forests near the sea, listening to gulls and albatrosses as well as swifts and ravens. She remembered a night on Isabela’s ship, a dream: a tall man standing by the mast, his voice behind her. _I don’t think we’ll see the Windline Marcher tonight,_ he’d said. _Sleep well, lethallin._

And then she heard his voice again. His intonation, familiar to her as dreaming.

“I’m sorry, Cole, but with your gift, I fear that you might see the path I must now walk in solitude forever. This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for. Though you reach out in compassion, I must now insist that you… forget _._ ”

She’d spun around, disbelieving, and yet for just a moment, she had… believed.

“Say that again,” commanded Virla. She strode over to Cole, and looked up into his face. He blinked, under the hat, and stammered.

“I… I’m… wh… what were we talking about? I’m ready to help people when you are.”

Cole didn’t remember. How had Solas done that? And what did it mean?

****

Virla ate her dinner silently, smiled her thanks, and went to sleep as early as she could. She walked into the Fade and called for Caritas. Fen’sulevin curled up by the mirror that appeared, by something other than ordinary magic. Her guardian spirit had settled on the form of a fennec, light brown with a stripy tail. Ridiculous, really, but incredibly disarming, like an iron fist in a silky brown fur gauntlet. She guessed that demons only saw the fist, while wisps and spirits saw the glove around it.

Through the mirror, the room was still the same. Instead of cake, the table held a plate of oatcakes.

“Welcome, Virla. Would you like one?”

“No, I just had dinner. As I’m sure you know, if you’re still watching me.”

Caritas nodded, indicating Virla should sit down on the divan beside her. Took a sip of a drink that looked like tea. The Inquisitor shook her head, and began to pace around the room. The strange woman had helped her before, might she have any answers to the questions that tormented her?

“So, then. What did he mean: _in solitude forever_? You can see the future, can’t you? Is that… true?”

Her voice trembled on the last word, and she suddenly found that she was angry. Not with Solas, or herself, but with the world. Whoever, or whatever, had constrained him to this fate.

“I don’t know,” said Caritas. “When I heard that first, it broke my heart, just like it’s breaking yours.”

“ _There is strength in absence,_ ” quoted the Inquisitor. “ _Absence of weakness, and of limitation. Absence of caution, and of mercy. The Void has always been within_.”

“I remember that. It’s an old Tevinter saying, isn’t it?”

“It’s etched into a staff we found. Dorian translated it for me. But anyway. You must know something. Must have noticed something that I missed. Spirits often do.”

Caritas sipped again at her tea, and waited.

Then it dawned on Virla. She took a deep breath, and sat down. “When you heard that _first_?”

“It was about six months ago, for me. I watched your… predecessor speak with Cole in Skyhold, after Corypheus was vanquished. Her Solas had vanished then as well. It was a different world, a copy, a dream-reflection in the Fade, if that makes more sense to you. Some things were the same: what Cole said was exactly what he said to you. Other things were different. She’d made Cole more like a spirit. Cassandra was going to be Divine. Alistair was married to Anora; he ruled Ferelden with her.”

Virla thought about Fiona, and felt sad. She took the cup of tea that Caritas poured out for her. It tasted strange, like embrium but not quite right. “So why aren’t you still watching her?”

“I do, sometimes,” admitted Caritas.

“Did she… did she ever see her Solas after that?”

“What do you think?”

Virla thought about what Cole had said, and that she could remember it when Cole did not. “I think he wanted me to hear his voice once more. To say goodbye, but not to say it.”

She paused, and continued, slowly, trying to reason through it. “He sounded like he was going off to war. A fate he would not wish upon an enemy… in solitude. Forever. It reminds me of a conversation he once had with Cole: _A war in the Fade, waged with human hate. / It would be a terrible thing."_

“Cole says many things that might be helpful, if you’re wanting to track Solas down. I suspect that you have many questions, Virla. If you don’t mind, I have some as well. With what you know right now, who do you think Solas really is? I promise I will not reveal it to anyone, without your consent.”

It would certainly be a relief to talk about it, with someone who had been through this before, who seemed to understand how raw her pain was, how little she could speak of it to anyone in Thedas.

Virla breathed, and came to a decision. “Well, he knows about the ancient elves. That there are other places where they linger. I don’t really blame him for not disclosing that: our legends say that contact with the humans caused the quickening that lost us immortality. That gives one reason why he might have left so soon: if he is an immortal elf himself, he might be afraid to stay in contact, lest he age and die. For a while I thought it might just be that simple.”

She drank a mouthful of the herbal mixture that wasn’t really tea, and continued. “I’m still coming to terms with that part anyway. To have been loved by an immortal, been treated as his equal…”

Her voice shook, and Caritas briefly placed a hand upon her shoulder. “He still loves you.”

“What we _had_ was real,” corrected Virla. “I can’t be sure of that. Although I’d like to think that he still loves me. No Dalish Keeper would want me for their clan, with my lack of _vallaslin_ and strange mark magic. That’s for the best, since I can’t imagine wanting to be bonded to anyone but Solas.”

“You’re very… controlled, Virla. It’s ok if you want to cry. I’ve seen it before, remember?”

“I have to be. The fate of Thedas depended on me. But anyway, you asked who I thought he really was. That suggests you have more information. All I have is theories.”

“If you share them with me, there is something I can show you after. The only part you never see in any world.”

Virla nodded, agreeing to the proposition. “I had a theory based on Dirthamen and Falon’Din, the Twins, from hearing Cole say that he was in two places. That where the Veil is thin, the halves of him can communicate more easily; but where the Veil is strong they are more separate. A bit like you and me, in fact... although this is not the Fade itself. Perhaps like Flemeth and Mythal.”

“You thought he was like Dirthamen because he has so many secrets?”

“And all that knowledge: _wisdom as its own reward_. For a while I thought he might have been a priest of him, serving at some temple like the one we found. There are many Dalish clans, and we all have slightly different customs. The lack of _vallaslin_ confused me though. He knew a lot about our pantheon for someone who wasn’t Dalish, and I knew that even before we went to the Arbor Wilds and he said that they weren’t gods. And then there was Sophiyel, and what he did to her: _ma ghi’lana mir din’an_. At the time I thought of Falon’Din, but now I wonder if it’s something that all ancient elves could do. He also knew a lot about Corypheus, and was so angry with the Wardens.”

She turned to Caritas. “I think that he has gone to stop the Blights, and knows that it will kill him.”

Caritas pursed her lips, and frowned. “It’s hard to say. But I think that you deserve to see this. I must say that I don’t know for sure if this has happened yet within your world. I suspect it happened very recently. There’s nothing I can do to change it, nothing you can do.”

Virla watched, intent, the images in the dark side of the mirror, projected somehow by this strange not-magic. _I knew you would come,_ said Flemeth, putting a glowing sphere of magic into an eluvian. _You should not have given your orb to Corypheus, Dread Wolf._ Virla winced to hear the name, and again as the perspective shifted suddenly. There were flowers among the spherical Crossroads trees, but she didn’t see them. Her eyes were on the too-familiar figure walking up to answer Flemeth… or Mythal.

“I was too weak to unlock it after my slumber,” said Solas. Virla moaned with sympathetic pain to hear the desperation in his voice, just as she had heard it last beside the broken orb. Was this how spirits always felt: to see the world, but not be part of it? She _would_ watch, however much it hurt.

He turned his head from side to side, slowly, as if he could not bear the pain. “The failure was _mine_. I should pay the price, but the People… they need me.”

He stood close to Flemeth, bowing his head in sorrow – a sorrow that she seemed to share. Virla felt as if her heart, so painfully mended after Crestwood, was being torn to pieces once again. Flemeth put a hand up to his face to stroke it, and she gasped with envy as he laid a hand upon her wrist.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, eyes closed, as he laid his head upon the woman’s shoulder.

She had never felt so angry in her life, or so incapable of speech.

“I am sorry as well, old friend,” sighed Flemeth.

The image flickered now to show Solas’ face, and she blinked, confused. Such a strange way to see the world… and yet, she could not wish to have unseen this, however oddly masked within a mirror.

He lifted his head, and Virla watched in horror as a flood of pale white magic rushed from Flemeth into him. His face was masked, neutral, and from here she had no clues to his emotions.

The perspective shifted dizzily again, showing Flemeth’s head jerking backwards, with a snap of magic. It looked like… this had killed her. Solas caught her quickly in his arms, and Virla cried out as the view drew back to show the whole eluvian: a howling wolf, a crouching dragon, one on either side. And in the middle, oh so far away, the magic fading, and an elven man laying…

They were looking from above him now, close up. Flemeth’s face was darkened, Solas leaning over her, his face hidden on her chest. Virla remembered the words she’d spoken by the temple, about her and Mythal: _she is a part of me, no more separate from me than my heart is from my chest._

And then he raised his head, so large it filled the mirror. Dark grey smoke was pouring from him, from his nose, his eyes? Light was glowing in his eyes: cruel and white with something black and jagged at the centre, like everite against the snow. She couldn’t make it out, even right up close like this.

Then it all went black.

“That’s all there is,” said Caritas, sounding sorry. Her hands twitched in her lap, half-controlled.

Virla tried to sift through what she’d seen. How did Solas know Mythal? She wondered what their relationship might be, had been, and when. Servant, friend, brother, lover? She had said _Dread Wolf_. Was he really Fen’Harel? Was that some part of him, or what he was for real? She must have seemed so… ordinary. To someone who had known – still knew – had killed? – betrayed? – Mythal.

And that was all it took for her to break out into helpless sobbing. She cried into the other woman’s shoulder, shaking, trembling. Where was the Solas she had known? Had he ever truly existed?

After a while she wiped her eyes, controlled herself again, “Why did you show me that?”

“I thought that you deserved the truth, not another friend who kept things from you. I think you can cope with this. You already know that many of your legends were not accurate. Why not accept that the Dread Wolf is just a man as well?”

“A stubborn, foolish man,” sighed Virla, but she did not disagree. “ _Ma serannas, lethallin_.”

The other woman flushed. “I’m not elven,” she admitted, pushing back her hair and showing very human ears.

“I’m not sure that it really matters. What’s it like in your world, Caritas?” asked the Inquisitor.

She rose at last and stood by the mirror, wishing she could walk through it and stand beside her love, follow him… wherever he was gone. Instead of back to an ordinary tent beside a chilly southern sea, Cassandra gently snoring. Or whatever she might choose to read, or do, within the Fade.

Caritas looked thoughtful. Eventually, she settled on: “In my world, there are fewer glowing rocks.”

  
  
  



	28. Serpentstone outpost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An outpost is a square in the opponent’s half of the chessboard protected by a player’s pawn and which can’t be attacked by any of the opponent’s pawns. It’s the ideal place for a knight to go, or at least it would have been if Virla had been sure which side she was playing on.

He’d given Corypheus the orb, his orb. Mythal had called him Dread Wolf. She was dead.

 _The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder_ , had said Abelas.

_I am so sorry. The People need me._

_I… can’t. I’m sorry._

What use was being sorry?

He’d given Corypheus his orb, to unlock it when he couldn’t. What had he thought would happen? Had he intended the explosion? Why had he fought _against_ Corypheus?

Why on earth did she still love him?

What had he done to make that magic glow within his eyes?

Where was Solas?

Or must she call him Fen’Harel?

****

Virla was screaming, lost in the circles, thoughts going nowhere, twisting and turning, lost in the dreaming, nowhere a refuge. Having stepped through the mirror, she knew only one thing: that she could trust no-one with what she had seen, until she had tried to absorb what it meant.

“Virlath?”

She looked down, and saw the fennec sitting there: Fen’sulevin. A spirit of purpose, not of compassion, but even so… she would have to be careful what she dreamed of, what she thought. But memories she already had experienced could presumably do no further harm. Fragments of the voice she still loved echoed in her mind.

_Spirits are people too… Even the lowliest peasant may find freedom in the safety of her thoughts. You take even that… The mind does marvellous things to protect itself._

She walked on. Fen’sulevin followed.

_Sera, my genuine sorrow for the tragedy of our history cannot be diminished by a single moment. That you do not feel this, well, you have my envy… and my pity._

The Inquisitor walked into a room, and shut the door. The fennec materialised in the opposite corner, curled up on its paws, and watched her, silently. She pretended to read _Hard in Hightown_ for the eighth time, the words on the page dancing madly. She had an hour.

_By the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor. Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?_

_How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?_

Varric had responded that the only choices were to lie down and die, or keep going.

She’d keep going.

Because dying wouldn’t help. The children say _Fen’Harel feasts upon the souls of the dead_.

Or was a metaphor for time, or death, or nothingness. Not a real man she had kissed, that she still loved. That had told her _what we had was real_. That owned this blazing mark within her hand.

That had saved her life.

That had told her that _the whole world changed_ , had painted a fresco in her honour.

That had stood beside her, silent, by a shrine with double pairs of wolves, while she painstakingly separated lengths of golden dragon webbing and offered them to it, to him. To appease a god who perhaps was not a god, a man who was more than just another man. A fool that was not a fool.

A Bringer of Nightmares that had soothed her own.

It made no sense.

 

And yet, somehow, slowly in her mind, it did. She’d grown up hearing that the Creators and the Forgotten Ones had trusted Fen’Harel to forge a truce, and they were all of them betrayed. Was it so surprising to think that the Lord of Tricksters (the Roamer of the Beyond… oh _fenedhis_ ) had confounded her as well? She’d even recognised his eyes as wolf eyes in her dreams.

_The best we can do is ensure the world still stands when this fight ends._

But: _you’re not omniscient. Mythal endures… the orb… they are not gone so long as you remember them. You could let them go. You didn’t do it to be right. You did it to save them._

_It is easier for people to believe that they were tricked into making terrible decisions._

_The brothers shouldn’t fight. They should tell their troubles. Their father didn’t teach them to talk._

_Often a problem, yes._

What if the “elven skirmish” were not over?

What did it mean for her?

****

The Inquisitor opened her eyes to soft dawn light within the tent. Cassandra was awake already, quietly praying by reciting verses from the Chant of Light. It was All Soul’s Day, the day spent in remembrance of the dead, to mark the immolation of Andraste.

 _Shartan died. Andraste was betrayed._ The woman who’d been beloved of the Maker, or at least believed she was. Was it just coincidence Andraste’s crown looked like the one that Flemeth wore?

Virla was the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all. _We must be above suspicion._ Solas had told Dorian he thought the orb was elven, once Dorian had begun to guess. The old Tevinter texts he’d read called them _somnaborium_ , vessels of dreams.

She’d been a vessel for nightmares, a vial of tears, but she had killed a would-be god and lived.

Cassandra’s voice droned through the Canticle of Threnodies, tuneless but surprisingly appropriate.

_The Maker turned from his firstborn… by My Will alone is Balance sundered… to you, my second-born, I grant this gift… from the Fade I crafted you, and to the Fade you shall return each night in dreams, that you may always remember me._

What if Andraste had really been Mythal, or linked to her? Could Elgar’nan have been the Maker, the first- and second-born have been the Twins? Even Solas “appreciated” the concept of the Maker, a god who didn’t need to prove his power. Had wished that more such gods had felt the same.

What was it Cole had said, somewhere in Dirthavaren?

_Why would they want to prove the Maker wrong? He’s already far away._

What had Solas then replied? She’d been busy killing demons at the time; focused to remember it.

_It isn’t about right and wrong. It’s about attention, when you think you have been forgotten._

Another perplexing riddle. Did it relate to the Forgotten Ones? To spirits?

_And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars. We dreamed up false gods, great demons who could cross the Veil into the waking world, turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you._

Solas was burned into her heart. No danger, and no mercy, that she could forget him.

Time for the waking world. The first Inquisitor, Ameridan, was missing, presumed dead, but not forgotten. And All Soul’s Day would be an auspicious day to start to hunt him down.

 

Because Fen’Harel surely didn’t _really_ feast on dead men’s souls.

It was going to be hard to make herself eat breakfast.

_Indomitable focus, Virla._

_Solas… can you make it stop, please, now?_

There was no answer.

****

She liked the Avvar. Svarah who had fought on with hair on fire; the Augur who introduced her to the local spirits; Trader Helsdim with his love of Val Royeaux. The huntsman who she traded banter with; their close relationship with their hold-beast, like the Dalish with their halla. If she closed her eyes and changed the accents she could almost imagine herself within her clan again.

Cassandra was belligerent at times, particularly when faced with practices outlawed by the Chantry, such as spirit-welcome. The Augur had told Virla that her hand burned like the watchman’s bonfire; that she blazed with fire. She’d not been surprised that the spirits could detect her presence. She’d known that for a long time now. It was good that her guardian was a quiet spirit. She’d been taught all spirits were dangerous, and even after a year in Cole and Solas’ company, accepting that they thought of them as people, it still felt strange to talk to them as such. After the first encounter with Fen’sulevin she’d been even less inclined to do so, fearing that she might corrupt them.

Virla found it fascinating that the Avvar worshipped spirits as reincarnating gods, the Fade their realm; that they encouraged teenage mages to co-habit with a spirit teacher. From what she saw, it seemed to work. Dorian was dismissive of the Avvar culture, if more open to their link with spirits.

“Every time I think I’ve seen the ugliest possible Avvar statue, a new one turns up that surpasses my expectations,” he’d said, on seeing the ice-troll Hryngnar, _dead to dreams_. She’d smiled.

She liked Bram Kenric too, with his _Lady Harding_ , and his dedication to period-specific buckling. The Tevinter Imperium had an outpost here, which his research assistant was investigating. Also at his suggestion they were borrowing a boat and sailing to the Lady’s Rest, an island in the inland sea.

****

As soon as she heard the woman’s voice, she knew this was a mistake. The fractured shards of pain in it were cutting straight into her heart as well, breaking eluvians within a nightmare.

_Vhenan… I’m dreaming… this blood… my blood? No, I can’t…_

“They watched the dead and dying, pressing close,” said Cole, intuiting, presumably remembering the spirits who had been here, were still here. “Clustered to hear, and forgot how to go back.”

_Sleep. I need to… I must find you… Ameridan… Ameridan, why?_

_I can’t… not without…_

_No, no, **no**_.

“No, no, no…” she echoed, half under her breath. She was going to be sick.

Cole gently took her wrist, and held it as she opened up the rift, to open up the sky for the spirit caught half in the Fade, half out. It had focused on Telana, held her memories upon her death. She’d tried to reach Ameridan, her beloved, had sought him in the Fade.

 _One last favour for Emperor Drakon. Slay the Avvar-dragon, save Orlais. Please my friend, for both_ _our peoples._

“Not another blighted dragon,” said Dorian, groaning.

Virla winced as well. But… **both** our peoples? Drakon was surely human. Was Ameridan an elf?

“The Hakkonites are coming,” said Cassandra.

Ameridan was an elf, perhaps. Telana was a Dreamer. She’d never found him in the Fade.

Cassandra had been saying something. Had it been important?

Cole grabbed her hand, and pressed it down upon the skeleton… Telana’s skeleton. She really was going to be sick. Her hand closed around an ancient scroll case.

She heard, as if down an endless tunnel, Fen’sulevin running to her. Transforming from a fennec into the form of an elven warrior, the spirit gestured wildly at the scroll case, held its hands out, watched as Virla wrenched it open. Watched as Virla doubled over…

A glowing shield sprang into being, deflecting magic from the…

Deflecting magic from the…

Deflecting…

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit, 1 August 2017: You can find a sonnet, [All Soul's Day ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11677161), as if written by Inquisitor Lavellan on 1 August 9:42 Dragon. She'd have started writing it in her head while riding after they broke camp, before they arrived at the Inquisition camp in Frostback Basin.


	29. Time control with an iron will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chess, time control determines how much time you have to play your game. The serpent (stone) displaced from the last chapter is found eight ages out of joint. Was Virla born to set it right?
> 
>  _To die, to sleep, / To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub, / For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause._ – Hamlet

Dried blood of battle, here on the island. The rift had been ancient, formed from the fighting. Made by the dying, not by the Breach. So many spirits, adrift on the island. Wraiths drinking pain that was caused by the dragon. Huge serpent power, like none had seen. She must find metal spires to stop it.

Telana. Telana. Forever waiting. Forever dreaming. Dreaming… then dead.

Solas… Solas… why?

Pain in her arms, her back, her head. A deathly numbness.

A scent of burning: flowers and limestone. Ash. In the darkness, she could see glowing. An orb, flaring rose red pink and orange. It hurt her eyes to look at it: the violent flashing, violet lightning. A spirit’s face looked back at her from the surface of the orb, in faded orange framed with auburn hair.

It was her own face.

The spirit floated closer, flickering hair in stone wolf green. Something thundered in her head.

Virla groaned. Somewhere near were demons of despair. Or fear. She was too tired to fight.

“There are no demons here, Virlath,” said Solas. “Only me. Embrace the spirits, they are people too.”

“No. You are not him,” she sighed. “That would be too easy.”

She turned around to face the voice. His tall figure melted into Corypheus. She held her hand out, opened up a rift, a shield, scattered him into a million pieces, into twenty million wraiths.

The spirit melded into Virla from behind, sinking burning white-hot iron leylines in her body. They all ran to the Anchor mark and drowned; the aqueducts of terror. Her head exploded with the pain.

She opened her eyes. There were flowers from the Crossroads all around Telana’s skeleton, their perfume mingling with the scent of blood. Fresh. Cassandra, Dorian, Cole were lying on the ground, not moving. She was kneeling. Fen’sulevin fought beside her, in the aegis of the rift, magic swirling.

A glyph formed beneath her feet, winter-white and icy chill. She looked up at last and met the mocking eyes of an Avvar spellbinder, close and callous. Virla could not get her legs to work in time. The glyph exploded, sent her reeling. Her guardian cast a barrier around her, as the aegis faded.

Somehow, she rolled and dodged the blasts of ice and threads of frozen silver lightning.

Somehow, she survived until the barrier was cast again. The Avvar mage was strong.

_I will not kneel. Not to humans. Not to dragons. Never to the…_

Virla cast the mark, and saw anew the lightning blazing green across the grass: dread lightning. The same as every fear demon from the rifts had cast, not hope, not faith, but dread. It killed the mage.

She woke up sweating.

****

The first time, the Avvar augur had sat beside her. He’d bathed her wounds with gentle care, put ice upon her burning head, and encouraged her to rest and listen to Avvar tales before she slept again.

****

The second time, she didn’t get as far as waking. She found herself tucked in a bedroll in an aravel, Fen’sulevin standing close beside her, laying a fur-lined blanket over her.

“You don’t need to be frightened of me,” it said. “My duty is to protect you. To protect Virlath.”

“I’m…” said Virla, and then she sighed. “Okay. I’m not frightened of you, but for you. In case I say something wrong and it corrupts you. Or you learn something that you shouldn’t know, and it hurts you like it hurt Sophiyel.”

“I’m not good at knowing things,” said Fen’sulevin. “Don’t have to talk. Just let me cover you.”

****

The third time, it was Dorian. He was clean of all the blood, but wore a binding round his wrist.

“This lake reminds me of boating in the summer. Fewer demons and barbarians, of course. I hear that I have you to thank for getting us all back off that remarkably depressing island. Maker knows how you managed to row the boat without our help.”

She tried to sit up, but he shook his head and frowned. “No, wait. If I construct a cushion from this mound of… what was this animal, anyway?”

“A snoufleur,” said Virla, shivering still from the flashback. It kept repeating, round in circles.

“This mound of snoufleur fur, then. Put it behind your back. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I keep seeing Corypheus in dreams, repeats of killing him. And that last fight with the Hakkonites.”

Dorian grimaced in sympathy. “They were vicious bastards, weren’t they? These links the Avvar make with spirits, it makes them all much stronger fighters.”

“They worship a god of war and winter: Hakkon Wintersbreath, Korth’s first-born son. The Augur told me that’s where they get their power from in fighting. The two bitter colds of frost and steel.”

“So Hakkon is a very powerful spirit? And that’s what these delightful old Hakkonites bound to a dragon during the Second Blight, when Ameridan lived? And these ones want to set him free.”

“Yes, that’s what Svarah Sun-Hair told me. She said they think of nothing but slaughter-glory. _To avenge a wrong is a good thing, but only a fool lights the world on fire to do it._ That’s what she said. It reminded me of Corypheus: _Let it end here. Let the skies boil._ ”

Her hands clutched at bear fur. _Sigfrost, guardian of wisdom… Dirthamen… the great Orlesian bear… our missing hold-beast Storvacker._ Head spinning, arms aching from the fighting, dragging and the Anchor. She suddenly felt nauseous again. Was everything in this stupid, sundered world connected?

“Such marvellous phraseology they have here in the South. Um, Virla, do you want a…”

He managed to leap back in time before she was violently sick all over the bear fur blanket.

****

A week later, when they’d all recovered, she had another flashback, while killing a fade-touched spider, its coat a whirling demon-dance of mottled black and white. This time she saw the Nightmare. She was pinned under its giant maw, her hand slowly bleeding, watching as it tore off a Warden’s face and arms and legs. Trying to shut out all the sounds of screaming. Brief, but terrifying.

The world went grey. She staggered off to be sick again, while the others finished off the spiders. After there was nothing more to give, she looked through streaming, burning eyes and saw a door.

A _very_ familiar-looking door. Needing twelve shards, which she hadn’t got.

Virla swallowed hard, against the foul taste in her mouth, the dying taint of spider poison, and forced herself to feel the shape of the magic. Unnaturally cold. And a sense of dread, like Solasan. He couldn’t possibly be in _here_ , could he? Unlikely. She might need the shards she had for… there.

****

The fifth flashback came some hours later, when they were standing in what Kenric said had been an ancillary station, Dorian the folly of a sad mid-level Tevinter bureaucrat. Harding promptly named it Razikale’s Reach: easy to spell on maps. Virla read an inscription. _We are alone. Razikale, O Shadow Which Obscures the Path ahead, deliver your faithful, save us from the silence which devours._

“Yes. Upriver, spires,” said Cole. “A place to pray and plan one last night. This is it.”

She’d found veilfire to break a barrier that hid a shrine: of Andraste holding two stone harts. There were wildflowers again, like those planted in the Crossroads when he’d let a woman wearing a crown that looked just like that caress his face. And then he’d killed her. What _had_ she been to him? The flashback came upon her then, of other tiles within the temple of that woman… spirit… dragon. Of endless circling, Solas staring at a wolf mosaic, telling her no answers came from staring at it. She tripped and had to kill the Sentinels, then was drowned by Samson in the Well. _You’re Mythal’s now._

She stared up at Andraste, wished that she were twice her height, to smash the harts that honoured Ghilan’nain, dash them from the prophet’s hands. If Andraste were Mythal, then… _fenedhis…_ who was Ghilan’nain? And had he known her? The Chosen of Andraste and _vhenan_ of the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, glared at the Chosen of Andruil and the Bride of the Maker, and felt… ridiculously small.

Virla plucked a single yellow flower, to tear into symbolic pieces later. Or burn. No-one here would understand her rage, nor was it safe to let them feel it. She mustn’t end up like that soldier Grandin, controlled by a demon of rage, wreaking vengeance for his love. Besides, they had to find Ameridan.

The Inquisitor held the veilfire torch away. No-one saw the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

****

She’d found runes which quoted Shartan and Transfigurations, created at a time before the former Canticle was banned. Virla felt a thrill of pride that Leliana would restore it to the Chant of Light. Another step to reunite humans and elves around shared heritage… or cause more wars.

The runes and veilfire had let them light three dragon trail markers. Dorian suggested that the line of markers ought to burn through the wall of ice guarding the eastern citadel. They fought Hakkonites ( _I will not kneel_ ), closed a Fade rift ( _the demons are nothing, they’re a tool_ ), and climbed a spit of rock. Fourth marker lit, she found a great pile of notes and observations, like those they’d found next to Storvacker’s cell before they’d released her. At least someone was crazier than her in trying to piece together all the dots: Helsdim, judging from the drawings in his house. _Orlais’ attempts to rouse the Snake Kings of the Earth against Tevinter’s alliance with the Moon Men… a Secret War._

In searching for the fifth they stumbled upon Colette, Kenric’s research assistant – and another of the first cohort of elves at the University of Orlais. Tevinter walls rose around an ancient statue of a couple like one she’d seen in Crestwood. Hastily scratched Tevene spoke of a citadel to Razikale: _she who winds the Skein of Wisdom… Dragon of Mystery… grant us eyes to pierce the darkness and souls to bear the wounds of your labyrinth._ A connection between Razikale and Mythal?

Virla snorted quietly. Vague translations of “dragon” and “labyrinth” did not inspire with confidence.

What Colette found that threatened the Inquisitor’s control was a copy of a ballad: _The Hunt of the Fell Wolf._ Virla’s eyes skipped across the page that was held out to her: _its eyes burned eldritch fire, the Fade in every breath… jaws like a dragon’s… a labyrinth of winding cave… beast and spirit._

Colette said Ameridan and Haron (the templar who had died here with the dwarf Orinna) reminded her of her brothers. The Avvar erected a memorial eight ages since: respect for a worthy adversary.

The Inquisitor agreed to petition Orzammar’s shaperate to learn about Orinna. Virla silently nodded. _An idol of Fade-touched stone_ lay in the ballad: who knew how that might work if not the dwarves?

****

Everything suggested that Ameridan had never emerged from the Tevinter fortress. They’d breached the wall of ice, fought through waves of Hakkon-blessed (or cursed) Avvar. With their mastery of ice magic they could slip through the enchantment without melting it. Svarah had said wherever Ameridan had defeated Hakkon was where the Hakkonites must perform the rite to free him.

 _Gods cannot be reborn until they die. Hakkon needs a good rebirthing._ / _I have to find him first._

Virla’s breath clouded her vision as she dashed from one fiery brazier to another, across the snow and broken tiles. Lingering between braziers meant death to the frozen chill. The magic of war and winter, enchantments of Hakkon. Though the fortress was an old Tevinter temple, with trees, ice, dragons, waterfalls and stone formations entwining madly through it. Much like her mind at times.

“This isn’t real, but it still hurts. We have to be fast,” had said Cole, and then they’d started running.

Ameridan had been here. His notes said that the Hakkon-possessed dragon rivalled Dumat in its fury.

No time to succumb to flashbacks. She could hear the Hakkonites had already started the ritual.

> _Gurd Harofsen, called the Cutter, wyvern-slayer, Lowland-bane…_  
>  _Begs of Hakkon, bring his body bloody blessings, cold and pain!_

Cassandra wondered if the Thane of the Jaws of Hakkon was insane, to wish to bind his body to such a powerful spirit. Virla remembered Solas’ words: _if the idea giving the spirit form is strong, it may someday rise again_. A spirit of war like Hakkon would obviously be strong. How best to handle it?

> _Sing the song of savage Hakkon, born in battle, bloody bladed…_  
>  _Wintersbreath to wrack the Lowlands, cold to cut and kill the hated._  
>  _Meet the might of Mountain-Father, crush the creed of Korth the callow…_  
>  _Leave the Lady lost and lonely, scour the skies of spirits sallow!_

There were Inquisition banners, veilfire runes carrying images of schematics. The giant moon peeked in through the broken roof. About the only thing she couldn’t see here was a Wolf. And yet, Hakkon was surely a spirit of rebellion too, a wolf to balance Korth the Mountain-Father. How _fascinating_.

A key to open an inner sanctuary, another brazier to guard against the chill. And further pages from a journal: this time belonging to the Thane, Gurd Harofsen, memories of the Fifth Blight a decade since. _The darkspawn took Red-Lion Hold. The Lady sends no messengers to blight-touched bodies… I curse the Lady. I curse Korth. I curse all the gods who let Red-Lion fall._ _I have taken the survivors… We must find a path. The only god I will forgive is Hakkon, for the tales say he was stolen by the lowlanders when the Jaws of Hakkon bound him to flesh and bone… We are the Jaws of Hakkon now._

A lion that became a wolf. Hakkon’s spirit (wolf) bound to a dragon. Lion beat the Drakon in Orlais. Round and round in circles. Cole pointed ahead to where a dragon flew, frozen in mid-air and in time. A tiny figure knelt before it on a rock, flowing waves of magic rising to the dragon’s jaws.

“The dragon. She’s stuck, still, a statue. Hakkon is angry inside her,” said Cole, his teeth chattering.

They ran to brazier after brazier, through Hakkonites and snow. The spellbinders fought fiercely. Harofsen’s voice droned on. As Virla stopped to bind Dorian’s bleeding leg, Cassandra spoke.

“So, Cole, you’ve forgiven the Templar who… killed you?”

Cole sighed, and brushed snow off his sleeves. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him. But I can live with him. Killing him won’t make anything better. It’s more complicated than that.”

Cassandra smiled. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you admit _anything_ is complicated.”

The young man shyly returned the smile. “I don’t understand all of it. I’m trying.”

And Virla felt that Solas might have smiled as well, just briefly, in sympathy with them all.

****

Hakkon’s valour, mercy, wisdom, honour. The names of the schematics lit by veilfire pounded through her brain as they ran to the altar, fighting through Harofsen’s followers to disrupt his ritual. He stood with shield and sword aloft, at the centre of a blizzard, voice echoing deeper than before.

“Face me and die, Inquisitor! Your predecessor could not stand against me. You shall fall as well!”

Grown in size since he stood beside Svarah Sun-Hair on their first arrival at Stone-Bear Hold, at least he’d not the voice of Corypheus… or Solas. He began to douse the braziers; they had little time. Virla had a moment while her feet were locked to the floor with ice, to consider tactics quickly. He must be vulnerable to fire, which suited her just fine. Corpses summoned. _Is he a kind of revenant_?

Eventually they killed him (or it), the burning flame within her heart too strong for Hakkon’s cold. She approached the kneeling figure on the rock: an elf, yes, silver-haired, with Dirthamen’s vallaslin.

“Inquisitor,” breathed Ameridan, still alive, still kneeling, controlling the dragon with his will alone. “ _Andaran atish’an._ I am glad Drakon’s friendship with our people has remained strong.”

He didn’t know, so they had to tell him. Eight hundred years. His love Telana had died. His friend had been too busy with the Second Blight to find him. He explained that he’d not been a Seeker, but that they welcomed the aid of mages hunting demons and maleficarum. He’d preferred that to politics. With Harofsen’s ritual, the dragon, with its Avvar-spirit-god, was breaking free. The old Inquisitor crumbled into dust… _join Telana at Andraste’s side._ Virla was blasted back. The dragon flew away.

“She still has Hakkon inside her. We have to stop her before she hurts people,” cried Cole.

Words from Harofsen’s journal: _Time is twisted upon itself, a knot inside a knot._

Just like her heart.

  



	30. Stealth obsidian knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This title is a homage to Terry Pratchett (1948-2015) who invented [stealth chess](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Games_of_the_Discworld).
> 
> “You always knew where you stood with Quezovercoatl. It was generally with a lot of people on top of a great stepped pyramid with someone in an elegant feathered headdress chipping an exquisite obsidian knife for your very own personal use.” – Terry Pratchett, _Eric_
> 
> Merry Christmas / Satinalia / Hogswatch / Winter Solstice / Yule to you all!

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan was going to be fashionably late again. She had hoped that at this ball there might be fewer assassins. But the soon-to-be-Divine’s past lives had not been laid aside quite yet, and perhaps even she had reckoned without the force of nature that was Zevran Arainai.

The carriage trundled south to Val Royeaux, and Virla couldn’t help but hide a smile. This time the Inquisitor was the one bringing the assassin to the party.

****

The last six weeks since killing Hakkon had been both more and less eventful than she’d wanted. She’d said goodbye to the Avvar, taking from them only Trader Helsdim and a newly granted legend-mark: _Inquisitor First-Thaw_. Svarah had agreed to this on condition that the Inquisition would ensure a healthy trade in Avvar furs and pottery and glass for the Dwarven and Orlesian goods they wanted.

Sera had arrived just in time to fight the dragon, with news that Leliana’s coronation as Divine would be delayed to Satinalia. Celene feared another elven uprising, and was calculating that Briala wanted Leliana securely installed on the Sunburst Throne before she lit the fires of rebellion. Sera said there was a rumour that Briala no longer had the password to the eluvian network either.

The fight with Hakkon was best forgotten: dark blue icy blasts of cold and frosted gibbering horrors. As it lay slain upon the ice, Virla had watched a ghostly spirit dragon emanating from it, flying off.

They’d taken one last trip around the Basin, assembling Ameridan’s parting gift to his successor: his memories from eight centuries ago. He’d had a spirit companion to advise him; believed Andraste had _been raised up from mortal men to stand with our Creators, our Makers_ ; had tried to persuade his friend, Emperor Drakon, that there was room for both perspectives. He’d worried that the Dalish kingdom would not support Orlais if the darkspawn came. Such tragedy to know that he’d been right, to agree with Sera that _elfy-elves don’t like that any more_. Could they change that now?

Sera had also brought another gift: the news that Charter’s team had found sufficient shards to open Solasan. The final shards were waiting to be claimed at Griffon Wing Keep. She had had enough to open up the temple – prison? – beneath Razikale’s Reach. Just emptiness again. The tomb had blessed her with cold resistance warding which would have helped to fight the dragon, had she been less… determined to open Solasan as soon as possible. There had been some ancient writing linking it to Geldauran, one of the Forgotten Ones: potential evidence that they were real as well.

> _There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed._
> 
> _I am Geldauran, and I refuse those who would exert will upon me. Let Andruil’s bow crack, let June’s fire grow cold. Let them build temples and lure the faithful with promises. Their pride will consume them, and I, forgotten, will claim power of my own, apart from them until I strike in mastery._

****

Josephine interrupted her reverie to say, with laughing eyes, “Are you _sure_ about this, Virla?”

“A backup gift in case she doesn’t like the Avvar sculpture I got her,” said Virla, smiling innocently.

Dorian exchanged glances with Josephine and Cassandra. “When our dearest Inquisitor gets in this mood there’s no preventing her from causing havoc.”

_Cry havoc in the moonlight…_

They fell silent again, each watching the men who rode alongside the carriage: Cullen and a man who now appeared to be an Antivan noble in full Orlesian finery, _nom-de-plume_ Lord Vito Calderas.

Cole and Sera had remained at the camp near Vivienne’s mansion, catching up with The Iron Bull and the Chargers. None of them minded missing out on what they thought would be a very dull affair.

Virla’s mind drifted back to Dirthavaren. They’d had time to clear out an impressive and abandoned chateau, uncovering two of the remaining mosaic pieces as well as a sad tale of misuse of magic. She’d not had to wonder long where the last piece might be: no sooner had they ridden to the Inquisition camp on the Path of Flame than the officer presented her with it, and a note from Sera.

_Didn’t think you’d want to disturb the elfy tombs yourself. Red Jenny owed you for Coryphyass._

And so they’d gone to Solasan, when? A full two weeks ago. The sharp stabbing loneliness that had engulfed her when they left the place had been buried now, but would return if she allowed it.

Four possessed corpses, a Pride demon, an inscription, magic with electrical resistance and some gear: the vitaar for an Arishok, the dagger owned by King Semion, a sigil for the Stormrider.

It wasn’t until the moment that she knelt before the fading inscription that she’d realised how much she had hoped that the temple would hold the answers… or that every day and night in the last two months she’d been scanning every vista, every shadow, just in case she could find Solas there. 

> _A figure bound in chains, two gazes turned away. Pride in our accomplishments and our hearts. That same pride became altered (corrupted?) within him, he sought to claim [something], cast from favour and so he was bound. Hidden from mortal eyes, death lies within._

That was the best she could do with her understanding of the language. She’d taken a transcription in case the missing word could be illumined by Inquisition scholars, or by Morrigan if she returned. She’d even be glad to see her if she were at Leliana’s party, though it was unlikely.

Virla smoothed the emerald overskirt of her dress, blessing Josephine for disregarding expense and not insisting that she wear again the one she’d worn that night in Halamshiral earlier in the year. Tonight she was thankful not to be the centre of attention: time to let others take the stage instead. Like Cassandra, tall and gorgeous in a black and crimson dress, every inch the princess-hero of Orlais.

****

The fuss earlier that evening had begun with violent Nevarran swearing and the sound of something smashing against the adjoining bedroom wall. Vivienne’s servant Anni had just finished tightening Virla’s corset. The emerald dress, gold shoes and mask and headdress were laid out on the bed.

“If you’d like to see if Seeker Pentaghast needs help, I can finish dressing,” had urged Virla, half to assist with Anni’s indecision and half because she thought she might actually be quicker on her own.

It had been an effort on everyone’s part to get Cassandra in a dress, but eventually the combination of bets, teasing and rules of etiquette had won out. No-one had let on that Varric would be there tonight, not even Cole, who was looking forward to seeing him almost as much as they all suspected Cassandra did. Instead they’d all bemoaned the state of Kirkwall’s harbour hindering swift passage.

Virla had been chuckling to herself, and hoping that the combined efforts of Vivienne, Josephine and Anni would succeed. She’d seen Cassandra’s dress already, red plush fustian velvet with ebony buttons made from dragonscale: an early Satinalia gift to her from everyone combined. She’d never consent to a mask or headdress, so her short hair would be adorned with a simple dragon diamond clasp. _Just wear it, Cassandra,_ had said Dorian, pretending to snap when she looked as if she might refuse his gift. _I don’t have so many friends that I can’t afford to lavish gifts upon the few I truly like._

And then, just as she pulled her own dress over her head, she’d felt a rippling in the Veil from over by the open balcony window, followed closely by more violent swearing.

“Get away from me, you pestilential crow,” came a voice from behind the curtains. _Antivan accent?_

She’d freed her head in time to see a raven soar behind the curtain where the voice had come from. Hurriedly casting a barrier, she pulled back the curtain. A tall yellow-haired elf was making futile slashes at the air with a sharp obsidian knife as the raven repeatedly attempted to attack his face.

“CRAAAK!” croaked the raven as the elf overbalanced, his knife slicing down into the window frame.

The raven had flown into a nearby apple tree, where it sat upon a branch and observed the intruder with baleful intent. The elf in turn quickly got to his feet and made an elegant bow to Virla.

“Lady Inquisitor, I must apologise. The tales of the Herald of Andraste make much of your wisdom and accomplishments on the field of battle, but fall sadly short in describing your… other beauties.”

Inquisitor Lavellan had realised she was mostly dressed in corset, and quickly tugged the dress down further. It hadn’t seemed to do much good, for the man had continued undressing her with his eyes.

And that was how she’d first met Zevran Arainai.

****

“So what did you say you’d come to do?” had asked Josephine, stifling a fit of un-ambassadorial giggles. They were in Dorian’s room, getting Zevran dressed in Dorian’s second-best Orlesian outfit.

“Leliana and I fought beside the Wardens in the last Blight,” had intoned Zevran, sententiously. “I am here to represent the ultimate sacrifice made by our friend, the Paragon Aeducan.”

“She means the other thing you said,” had said Dorian, through a mouthful of pins.

“The Lady Inquisitor and I share many things – a Dalish heritage, exquisite beauty, excellent wit – and both know what it is to lose the one we love. My door is always open. As is hers, apparently.”

Virla had laughed, remembering his silly battle with the raven. “No, the other, other thing.”

He’d smirked. “I seek to persuade the Divine that Chantry sisters should not be _atiya nagrano_ … how do you say? They should not be prevented from enjoying the sweetest of the Maker’s gifts.”

“He means…”  

“We know what he means, Josie,” had cut in Dorian, rolling his eyes. “I’m just a little concerned about methods of persuasion. This is an assassin – an Antivan Crow! – that we’re disguising here.”

“An **ex** -Antivan Crow,” had been the rejoinder. “Hence disguise is necessary. I have many methods of persuasion I might employ tonight. I have not forgotten Leliana once asked to see my sheath.”

“You’re a braver man than me if you think to blackmail Leliana,” had warned Dorian.

“Blackmail takes planning. My strengths lie in love-making. And killing. But mostly love-making.”

****

The ballroom of the Empress’ palace in Val Royeaux was hot and overcrowded. Virla appreciated Leliana’s tact in arranging a private parlour on an upper floor so her particular guests could mingle.

The moment when Varric’s eyes had met Cassandra’s had been everything they’d hoped for. He’d been standing on the stairs talking to a group of his admirers, avid readers of his books, and smartly dressed as well (they’d reimburse Blackwall later) befitting his new status as Viscount of Kirkwall.

Cassandra had stopped dead in her tracks, swallowed audibly. She’d stalked up to the bottom of the stairs, where her eyes were level with a crushed blue velvet hat that perched upon his head.

“What on earth is that ridiculous hat you are wearing, Varric?”

He’d turned around, eyes wide with surprise – what had Blackwall told him? They quickly widened even further as they swept over the Seeker’s body. For once the storyteller had no words. He swept off the Viscount’s ceremonial hat and twisted it in his hands, his eyes never leaving hers.

The Nevarran princess (fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra) swept on up the stairs, and the renowned author nearly tripped over his feet in hastening up the stairs behind her.

“Let’s leave them to it, shall we?” murmured Dorian. “We have an Antivan noble to present.”

He moved on, taking Josephine and “Lord Vito Calderas” with him, and Virla made as if to follow him, when she was intercepted by Ambassador Briala.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” smiled Briala, taking her arm and walking down a corridor lined with marble Chantry statues. “Let me show you Val Royeaux’s oldest copies of the Canticle of Shartan.”

It was not the kind of smile that said _how nice to see you once again._ It was an assassin’s smile, a bard’s smile. A smile that she remembered once on Solas’ face: _you will take me to Halamshiral._

How funny that she’d seen herself as channelling Fen’Harel last time she’d seen Briala at a ball.

How ridiculously funny.

Halfway down the corridor Briala pushed her into an alcove, placed a dagger at her throat. She must be worried if she would threaten a powerful mage. Perhaps she had calculated that the last thing the Inquisitor would want to do was destroy the Orlesian peace she’d carefully created. Perhaps she had a back-up plan. It seemed to be the night for elven assassins behaving strangely.

Virla breathed carefully, and waited.

“Inquisitor. What is the password to the eluvian network?” Briala moved the dagger half an inch away from Virla’s throat, to enable her to speak.

“Is that what this is all about? When Solas told me it before we destroyed Corypheus, it was _Fen’Harel enansal_. I haven’t used the network since we killed him. Has the password changed?”

It was obvious from Briala’s actions that it had, but the woman didn’t betray the fact through any movements of the muscles in her face. “Have you involved any Dalish in your plans? Maybe someone from a traditional clan found the password offensive and found a way to change it?”

Briala must have decided that Virla genuinely didn’t know, because she sighed. “It wasn’t meant to be offensive to the Dalish. I chose it because I admired Fen’Harel. I wanted to be like him.”

“You _admired_ the Dread Wolf?”

“I knew a Dalish man called Felassan. He told me many stories of Fen’Harel. Then he disappeared.”

Her eyes fell, briefly letting fall the true mask, and in that moment Virla felt a kinship with the woman that went well beyond both being elves.

She pushed the dagger away, meeting no resistance. “Briala. I’m so sorry. Shall we talk?”  
  


 


	31. Paragon's towers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technology has always played a part in war. The name rook comes from the Persian _rukh_ , meaning chariot. When chess spread to Italy it is possible this was confused with _rocca_ , meaning fortress. In any case, the Italians renamed the piece _torre_ , the tower. Russians call it _ladya_ , a sailing boat: think of the longships of the Vikings.

A bench ran around the entire semi-circular wall of the alcove with space enough for six or eight. Virla stepped away from Briala, sat down on the golden cushioning. _How to play this? Very carefully._

“I heard a little of Felassan from Michel, before we killed the demon Imshael. He said Felassan was your mentor: a powerful mage, with Dalish _vallaslin_. Sharp, sarcastic, determined. I thought I’d like to meet him. But the clans know of no-one Dalish meeting that description.”

Briala was silent, so Virla continued. “At the Temple of Mythal, we found mosaics of Fen’Harel and other elven gods. Great statues of wolves like those in the Dales. Solas told me tales I’d never heard before. We encountered ancient elves. You may have heard the rumours. One in particular, named Abelas, was the guardian of the Temple’s secrets. He wasn’t Dalish either, but wore Mythal’s _vallaslin_. I saw no-one there who answered the description of Felassan, but from what was said, I think there are other places where the ancient elves still linger. Duties that they carry out.”

“I watched you dance with Solas,” said Briala, a slight sneer in her voice. “He was your _lover_ , not your mentor. He had no _vallaslin_. Do you know where he has gone?”

“He was both my lover and my mentor,” said Virla, lightly. “Need it be a choice? History belongs to all of us. Solas admires your ingenuity. We all knew Gaspard would overreach himself. Celene’s a rare Valmont: ruthless but not reckless. You still want to light the fires of another elven rebellion. How will you prevent Celene from purging other alienages? What does success look like here?”

Briala glared. “Freedom needs to be won; it can’t be given. And you _don’t_ know where your lover is.”

“To win by war, the other side must become monsters. Is that what you wanted for Celene? At the Winter Palace I found an elven locket, a large green stone encased in gold, in her private vault. And so I asked her about it. She told me it was sentimental. It was yours, wasn’t it?”

“She really kept it?” said Briala, dark eyes widening behind the mask. Then she crossed her arms and frowned. “No. She’ll always choose her people over me.”

“Why can’t your people be her people too? Shartan worked together with Andraste. Garahel was a hero to the whole of Thedas, not just to elves in city alienages, or the Dalish, but to everyone.”

“They had a common enemy: Tevinter, or the Blight. Perhaps if you had attempted to reconcile us before you killed Corypheus… but no. It’s too late now. But that reminds me, Inquisitor. _What if there’s a sixth Blight?_ You’ve exiled all the Wardens. They say Corypheus had a dragon, but it wasn’t a true Archdemon. If it had been, you never could have defeated it. You’re no Garahel.”

It was Virla’s turn to sigh. “The Blight’s the real problem, yes. But the Wardens here were too far gone to fight it. Perhaps they can regroup at Weisshaupt. I expect you know that I’ve been in the south, following a trail left by the last Inquisitor, Ameridan. Another elven hero, lost to history. Close friends with Kordillius Drakon. He saved Orlais from obliteration, and no-one ever knew. If elves had helped Drakon defeat the Second Blight, perhaps there would still be a Kingdom of the Dales.”

Against all odds, Briala was still listening. Virla was about to tell a story of Ameridan, work round to Felassan’s stories of Fen’Harel, when she heard two pairs of footsteps and a very familiar voice.

“What’s this about the Dales, _da’len_?”

Cullen walked up to the alcove, shortening his steps to keep pace with an elderly elven woman, unmasked, and wearing a seal of Wycome on a chain above her Keeper’s robes.

“Deshanna!” cried Virla, and got up to enfold the other woman tightly in a fierce hug, before leading her to a seat beside her on the bench. “No-one told me you were coming here.”

“ _Da’len,_ ” repeated Keeper Deshanna, smiling. “It is so good to see you. I have been thanking your Inquisition’s Commander here for the timely interventions of his troops to protect us in Wycome.”

Cullen was blushing slightly. Virla remembered her manners. “Deshanna, this is Ambassador Briala.”

Deshanna smiled briefly at the Ambassador, and turned back to Virla, her face excited. “We received your letter about the Arlathvhen. I have good news for you, my child. After that whole sad business at Din’an Hanin, and the work you did within the Dales, Keeper Hawen wishes to make you his First.”

Virla stared. It was just like being a teenager again. Perhaps she had misheard. “I’m sorry?”

Deshanna sighed. “He wrote to me. He is a kind man, Virlath. A little old for you, perhaps, but well respected. He could help ensure that other Keepers listened to you at the Arlathvhen.”

She daren’t meet Briala’s eyes, or Cullen’s, while she figured out the best response. More footsteps sounded. A lazy Tevinter accent cut across the sound of Briala coughing, trying to stifle laughter.

 _Dorian. Thank… somebody._ “Perhaps you did not hear me properly? The Inquisitor is not on duty. It’s Satinalia. Let’s get drunk on atrocious Orlesian wine and you can meet with her tomorrow.”

“I am sent by King Bhelen of Orzammar himself. This is urgent. I must see the Inquisitor tonight.”

Virla got to her feet again, somehow managing an apologetic grimace at Deshanna. She looked down at the dwarven envoy. He was masked… no, blindfolded. He must really be from Bhelen then.

She summoned up her most commanding voice. “I am Inquisitor Lavellan, and, _thank you, Dorian_ , but the Inquisition values alliance with King Bhelen. What appears to be the problem?”

****

Subterranean earthquakes. Hordes of darkspawn. For some time she had feared Briala right, that this was the beginnings of another Blight, enough to forgive the Orlesian woman her parting shot that night in Val Royeaux: _dareth shiral, **da’len**_. Before they’d left, she’d also had a long talk with Deshanna, letting her think the plan with Hawen was a good one. It was true: the man was kind, and his clan would need a Keeper when he died, so it made sense… if you’d been brought up Dalish. She wondered if he would expect her to sleep with him, whether even the risk of that was worth it if it brought the Dalish to a better understanding of their history, their misplaced pride. Their _solas._

 _Solas._ She hadn’t cried for months now over him. But in the darkness, no-one could see the tears, far less the icy hand of fear that clutched around her heart. Down here with the darkspawn, she dreamed more often of the Nightmare, imagined it as a demon growing _in_ him, dark black smoke.

Blackwall was snoring. _I always thought I’d die down here,_ he’d said, on that first lift down into the chasms, before they’d met Shaper Valta, Renn or the other members of the Legion of the Dead. Incredible to think he’d have gone to the extent of faking a Warden’s Calling when he didn’t need to.

Lieutenant Renn had fought in the Fifth Blight, one of the Legion’s finest commanders, so they said. He was sceptical of the Shaper’s theories about the tremors. Valta said there was a rhythm in them, growing clearer, stronger and more insistent. That the quakes were deliberate, with an intelligence behind them: a _titan_. That the sounds were not a song, but more like air that flowed through lungs. He did admit that Valta had great Stone sense. They were clearly close. She wondered if it were taboo for Valta to express her love more openly. From Orzammar’s perspective, Renn was dead.

She felt in her pouch. Among the dried leaves of dragonthorn and elfroot, she’d kept a letter from another Legionnaire, one of the ones they’d burned near a previous camp. _Legionnaire Greck._ He’d written to _dearest Iora,_ saying: _This will never reach you… Forgive me. All my letters end the same._ Maybe she could take it to Iora, if they made it out of here alive. _He couldn’t… I’m sorry._

But she’d kept it for another reason. It spoke of beauty: _wonders down here… when it’s quiet, there are still hints of what the Deep Roads used to be… these are more than roads, Iora. They connected our empire, let our culture flourish._ A dwarven Crossroads. _The Stone accepted us, we lived and moved within her. Now we cling to her like someone drowning._ Valta spoke of the Stone as female: _we return strength to her when we die_. Virla thought of Elgar’nan, wreaking vengeance on his father the sun for destroying the gifts that his mother, the land, had made. And Valta’s words: _darkspawn come from broodmothers. Perhaps at the very heart of our world sits a queen – the first mother._

For all we know, killing the Old Gods might make things even worse. Mysterious songs usually lured to an Archdemon or to death, but they’d now cleared out the main darkspawn nest, with no sign of anything worse than an emissary alpha. A huge, bald, elven emissary, flying, using the magic of the sun… which was bad enough. She’d managed not to be sick inside her helmet after killing _that_.

Would she make it back in time for the Arlathvhen? It would be wonderful to smell the scent of a forest rather than stale air and the stench of darkspawn. To hear birds singing. Not the skitter of deepstalkers, spitting spiders, the ominous clank of slowly moving gears. She had tried to create an illusion of a better world within her dreams, but the Nightmare kept on crawling back to haunt her.

Those gears were weird: warm to the touch and ancient, from a metal no-one in the Legion had encountered. There had been some ancient parchment, ravings about _burning wheels, a sigil._ And a related lament for a child, set to destroying the _vast malevolent engraving_ at the cost of its own life.

Renn had tried to cheer them up with his favourite story. One of his soldiers fell down a hole, told tales of _a golden longboat floating in the air, packs of hairless children hunting nugs, a giant skeleton on a throne_. And the next day… couldn’t remember any of it. Virla had wondered whether Solas could make her forget the past, whether he had _already_ done so. But if so, why leave all the hurt?

It was also odd to find spindleweed down here, far from water. Deep mushrooms, she’d expected.

Of all the many mysteries, last night’s had intrigued Renn and Valta the most. The emissary’s lair had held a rotting book, with the seal of Paragon (and King) Orseck Garal. Dorian had supplied the Tevinter dates: Garal had moved the dwarven capital from Kal-Sharok to Orzammar in 25TE, two millennia ago, following turmoil in the Imperium caused by Archon Darinius’ death. And this book had a reference to Titans: _I awoke to the singing stone. Our kingdom trembled at the Titan’s hymn._

But there were no references to Titans in the Orzammar Shaperate’s Memories. So who had ordered the references to be expunged, and when, and why? Valta had concluded that the lift that stood near the camp had been constructed at least a thousand years ago. And this morning – or what counted for it here – they’d go down in it, and see what kind of dangers, or wonders, lay below.

****

The journey down took many minutes, and even Renn and Valta seemed uncertain as they stepped out of the lift and into dark and dripping caves. Something moved. Renn urged them to stay close to him, rather than light a torch and give their position away to any would-be assailants that might lurk.

“I don’t wish to alarm anyone,” whispered Dorian, “but I believe we’ve all gone blind.”

“It’s wrong here,” said Cole. “Too many whispers. The song is wrong. Chords cut to silence.”

“We’ve gone _past_ the Deep Roads,” said Valta. “I can feel it.”

It must be Valta’s stone sense, thought Virla. It was pitch black, and even elven night vision didn’t help. Icy water dripped down her neck, something skittered. It felt as if they were being watched.

Renn clearly felt it too. After a few minutes of walking in the dark he yelled: “Show yourselves!”

A blast of deep blue lightning shot out towards him, illuminating the cave briefly. Virla could just see a large hole in his chest, faintly glowing. She cast a barrier around them all. Then the assailants were upon them: humanoids in armour, the size of dwarves, holding complicated metal weapons shooting… what? Raw lyrium? She concentrated on keeping barriers up, and the Aegis of the Rift.

It was just enough to defeat these strange opponents, but that first shot had been too much for Renn. Valta knelt beside him, her shock rapidly turning to denial and fury as they prepared a hasty grave for him. _You deserved better, Renn. Anything standing between us and the Titan will regret it._

Virla left her with Cole for a moment, inspecting the bodies with Blackwall and Dorian. Dwarves. Lyrium was woven into armour bonded to their skin, and infused into their weapons. The colour of the blue in the Temple of Mythal _sa’vunin_ , reminding her of Flemeth’s _geas_ magic at the altar.

“It sings softly under the silence. The Stone took him back. He’s home again,” said Cole to Valta.

“Somehow that brings me comfort,” said Valta, as they prepared to explore the caverns further.

_Where was Solas now? Alive, dead, singing, screaming, home? Far away, or just around the corner?_

****

Through caves and on bridges over gaping chasms, there were more unspeaking dwarf assailants, with horned animals of legend Virla realised must be cretahls. Pages told of a forgotten war: attacks on dwarves north of Cad’halash; Scaled Ones heavy and large and dark. Ancient walls of memories named the strange dwarves _sha-brytol_ , revered defenders, pure. _Cut out our tongues; entomb our bodies; watch over the Titan until it stirs._ Virla was reminded of the Sentinels: _other duties, lethallin._

After her translation of the wall, Valta paused, excitement fading. “I can hear… Renn’s objections.”

Virla had looked away as well, thinking: _I can still hear Solas._

The next set of proto-dwarven carvings were in a tunnel leading from a chasm whose depths emanated an eerie white-green light. They appeared to be about the Titan. Valta read: _It shapes the Stone, it is the Stone. It sculpts the world within and without._ Titans must be enormous, then.

“The Titans would have to be the very first children of the Stone,” suggested Virla.

“That would have huge implications for my people,” said the little Shaper, shaking her head.

And if the Stone were identified with Elgar’nan’s mother, _the land_ , then huge implications for _the People_ too. Perhaps a step too far for the Arlathvhen this time around, thought Virla, ruefully. She’d really have to sleep with Hawen, bear him twins, to persuade them all of _that_. She could hear Solas’ voice again: _history books contain truths, but reason and sense are required to extract them._

“I’m not sure that ancient folk tales are a trustworthy source of information,” said Inquisitor Lavellan, wondering for the thousandth time what Solas might have said if he were here.

“I have spent my life preserving stories and events. Every myth contains a kernel of truth. But if this is true, why would it be missing from the Memories of Orzammar? Why would someone erase such an integral part of our history?”

The cave shook once more, harder this time, dislodging dust and stones. Virla frowned. They weren’t here for a history lesson after all, but to stop the tremors and allow the lyrium mines to re-open, normal business to resume. She remembered the blindfold dwarven envoy and his fear of the risks to Orzammar’s stability, of Valta and Renn talking of food shortages and riots in the dwarven kingdom. Of the Inquisition’s dependence upon lyrium, and Tevinter’s. Of the Wardens’ failure to respond. What happened down here had consequences for the surface many miles above them.

She turned to Valta. “Let’s answer that after we stop the earthquakes.”

“The rhythm is louder than ever,” said Valta, her hands seeking the wall behind her. “We’re close.”

Dorian led them round another corner through the winding tunnel, and then stopped in amazement.

“Look at that. Like stars at night.”

It was a huge cavern, with spires and pinnacles of stone, with blue branching lyrium veins entwining over them, rising above and below them. Untapped – had the Sha-Brytol found another way to harness it, without mining? It was stunning in its dark blue beauty: a true wonder in the deep. Virla found herself hoping that no-one would ever want to calculate its cost in coin to the surface.

“I see no evidence of darkspawn here,” said Valta, as they explored the passages off the cavern.

“Maybe they know better than to come down this far,” replied Blackwall, gruffly.

“But there must be a reason they avoid this place,” insisted the Shaper. _Let’s just be grateful._

There was more spindleweed here, and a distant sound of roaring, like the sea? It reminded her of something but she couldn’t place it. One of the Sha-Brytol warriors had stood in front of a barrier, sealed with lyrium. Virla picked up a weapon it had dropped, and thrust it into the centre of the barrier. With a flash the barrier exploded, knocking her back. _Lucky guess._ She beckoned to Valta.

“You said we were beneath the Deep Roads. Do you think anyone else has travelled down here?”

“We are very likely the first to travel this far,” responded the Shaper.

Another barrier, and then a huge number of Sha-Brytol beside… yes… a sunken sea. Virla felt the sense of déjà vu again. And then it came to her: within the Fade, Solas dying, covered in frost. Why had he come here? Suddenly she didn’t want to go towards the sea. She led them another way, across a bridge, through more Sha-Brytol, another lyrium barrier, and into… a torch-lit cave.

With elven markings painted in blood on roughly carved stone statues. A dozen freshly slaughtered cretahls. Candles. Glyphs. Blood magic. Incense. An eluvian frame. A statue of Mythal, headless, fallen on the ground. And the villain of the piece? An arcane horror. _Another shrine_. They killed the demon, Virla thanking… somebody… that the robes it wore were ancient. _Not Solas either._

Virla could not think about this now, nor say a word for fear of saying, seeing too much.

Yet nonetheless, when they breached the final barrier by the sunken sunless sea, and emerged to a cavern more beautiful even than the lyrium-blue Bastion of the Pure, with green trees, clouds below, and a city _within a Titan,_ what did the Inquisitor see?

Spires of crystal twining through the trees.

 _This_ is what was lost.

  
  
  



	32. Deciphering veil quartz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through the chessboard now, and the [quartz clock](http://www.chesssets.co.uk/chess-sets/school-chess-sets/quartz-tournament-chess-clock) still ticks. If you haven’t read [Under the Fresco](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10448910) yet, its final chapter is entangled with this one, and it may be worth reading in full when Virla starts to translate the fresco. [Mind Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474826/chapters/10171097) was written before The Descent came out, and Under the Fresco before Trespasser. That Trespasser has rainbows in the skies, murals and mosaics linked with veilfire codices, and that those earlier stories can still be worked into canon, feels like a miracle from the Bioware gods, one that’s unlikely to persist through Dragon Age IV! Though… _telanadas_. 
> 
> This chapter starts in a mirror, darkly.

Virla was standing, dressed all in white in a green forest clearing, holding Hawen’s hands. Then he was speaking, words she remembered, words she had wanted to say to another. Words _he’d_ have hated, torn from her mouth. _Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris._

Footsteps behind her, crunching on dead leaves. Virlath glanced over her shoulder but could see nothing. She looked up into Keeper Hawen’s eyes. They widened in horror. She whispered: _Vhenan?_

The old Keeper let go of her hands to cast a barrier around them, just as flame washed over them. Virla tried to flex her hands to cast the Aegis but found she could not move them. The Ring of Doubt shone on her fingers. No-one could see her. The flames dissolved the ground beneath her feet.

“Never again,” said Solas’ voice, echoing off stone and ash and lava.

Virla was falling, descending and plummeting, into the Earth. Her face and limbs were blistered by the lava, her wedding clothes disintegrating into ash. Only the ring remained, stubbornly, on her finger. The severed tongues of a thousand Sha-Brytol were chanting: _Valta, Virlath, Arlathan, Ar lath ma, vhenan!_ She crashed and saw a varterral with five massive rock flail limbs, bearing Valta’s face.

“Your punishment awaits, false Herald,” said the Valterral, entangling her in bright blue lyrium cords. “For every bottle of lyrium drunk by Chantry forces since Andraste woke us last, you will sew one of our slaves’ tongues into the mouth of an emissary, and drink the darkspawn’s blood. Your hair will be pulled to provide the thread. The needles were cut from Fen’Harel’s teeth using the Titan’s nail.”

“Did Dirthamen create you? Where’s the Titan? Where is Fen’Harel?” asked Virla, struggling against the web of glowing restraints that tied her wrists and ankles. The guardian-monster placed a flail upon her hair and kicked her head with another. She screamed as clumps of hair were torn away.

“Slaves do not usually ask so many questions, nor resist His Will so long,” was the response. “You will be the mother of His brood, a purer breed of darkspawn. You will never see the Light again.”

_Pain, pain. It doesn’t usually take me as long as this. Where’s the fear demon hiding? I thought it was the Valterral but that’s only an echo. Fen’sulevin’s hiding in that pile of bones, it is terrified as well._

And then she realised. The demon was the Stone, all round her. Malevolent and angry, huge. She was tiny, bound and helpless. It laughed. _Why don’t you let your fennec lick you free, da’len? I hear you used to like that. Such a pity he will die alone. Perhaps I could find his tongue for you…_

Well, if it would tie her up in lyrium, she would drink it. Virla sank the cords into her veins and used its power to grow huge and strong until she filled the cave. She looked down. The lyrium was red. Its veins were snaking, locking her to the ground, the walls. It would turn her into a broodmother. She screamed with rage. _To whatever gods are listening now, I gave my love to him forever. I will not let you make me fear him._ She kept on growing, ignoring the pain as she pushed against the rocks to flee the demon. Finally her hands were free. Virla cast the Mark to banish the demon into dust. She shaped the cloud of bones and sand and dust into a city far above the clouds and sun, with spires suspended from a ceiling made of rock, and marble tiles, and ferns, and houses.

The dust cleared. Solas stood before her on a bridge. He looked horrified. But before she could free her feet to run across to him, he vanished in a trough of smoke. Only an epitaph remained: **_wake up._**

********

She opened her eyes, gasping for air and sanity. A man knelt beside her, but not the one she wanted.

“Keeper Hawen,” she faltered. The mark was still glowing in her hand, and Emalien and Nissa were watching it intently from the entrance to the aravel: anxious, frightened.

“Emalien fetched me when they could not wake you from your nightmare,” said her Keeper.

She couldn’t bear to think about it, much less talk. “I think I need some air, _hahren_.”

“Will you let me walk with you?” he asked, politely, picking up a blanket from the floor.

Virla paused, then nodded. Her advisors had only consented to her plan to attend the Arlathvhen after several arguments about security. All the Dalish elves remaining in the Inquisition had been given special training from both Cullen and Leliana and a rota to keep watch. If anything were to happen here, it would spell further disaster for human-elf relations. If her reputation did not head off any action from the hotheads usually up at night, walking with a respected Keeper might.

They walked to the edge of the campsite, by the river, and sat down beside it. The moon hung overhead, and owls were hooting in the trees. Further down the river, someone sang a lullaby.

“That this place still retains its beauty is thanks to you, my sister,” said the old Keeper, gently, offering Virla the blanket to wrap around her. “I brought our clan to Dirthavaren so that I might be buried here when my time came. I did not think to lose my First and half my clan before me.”

It was strange to think that the Solas she had known was older than the white-haired man beside her. Did dreaming in _uthenera_ count, or not? Presumably it did, if you were conscious of it. She looked at him, grateful that he did not ask about her nightmare. His might be easier to soothe.

“I am sorry for your losses, _hahren_. I will do my best to honour your wishes and protect our clan.”

“You do not need to promise, _da’len_. You are kind and strong, you’ll do what you can, like any Keeper. How much longer do you think the human kingdoms will let a Dalish lead the Inquisition sat upon their borders? The shemlen civil war is over now, yet the flat-ears in the cities are rebelling.”

Virla thought of the news she’d received on arrival in Kirkwall after the earthquakes had been stopped (by Valta calming a Titan like Mythal calmed Elgar’nan… no, don’t think of _that_ ). As she’d predicted, Gaspard’s skirmishes on the border with Nevarra had been a feint. He’d marched on Val Royeaux again soon after Satinalia, while she’d been underground. The Inquisition forces had fought on Celene’s side, and with Briala no longer in control of the eluvians, there was little her elves could do to affect the outcome. Incredibly, it had ended with Bull challenging Gaspard to single combat, and defeating him, in some kind of strange reversal, so Varric said, of Hawke’s battle with the Arishok. Had Gaspard felt there was nothing else for a man of honour to do, but continue fighting?

_The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going._

Back beside the river, she simply shrugged. “Do any of us truly know the future, _hahren_?”

It wasn’t an entirely rhetorical question, and yet she was surprised when Hawen answered her.

“If anyone had told me before we came to Dirthavaren that I’d be sitting by a river at the Arlathvhen with a woman who had spoken with Mythal, I’d have thought they were telling me that I was going to die. Did you truly speak with the All-Mother, _lethallin_? What wisdom did she give you?”

It was like being the Herald of Andraste all over again, and advising Josephine on how to spin the propaganda. _Tell them Andraste loves them all._ She’d known that this was necessary, and had spent late nights up with Varric working on her story, after closing the rifts that emerged in Kirkwall’s harbour. The Veil in the City of Chains was perilously thin, after all the death and madness it had seen. Perhaps the truth of the stories she was going to spin would be just as prone to tearing.

In any case, this was practice for tomorrow, when they’d let her speak. She’d only get one chance.

“We found an ancient altar dedicated to Mythal, with her statue crowned with flowers in the forest. The All-Mother was brought there by Asha’bellanar, whose daughter helped me summon her. I greeted her politely. She told me that I was young and vibrant, had come far and that I did the People proud. I asked her why our prayers had not been answered and she told me _what was could not be changed_. She told me _truth was not the end, but a beginning_. Then she taught the daughter of Asha’bellanar some magic that would help us defeat the ancient darkspawn magister, Corypheus. It was later that day that my _vallaslin_ were taken from me, in preparation for the battle.”

The Keeper hummed. “Ah. I thought Loranil could not be right about the flat-ear and your _vallaslin_.”

She looked down at her hands, to cover her surprise. _Of course. His stupid crush._ “What did he say?”

“He told me that the man who travelled with you was your lover, and that your _vallaslin_ had gone after he had travelled somewhere with you by eluvian. He left after Corypheus was defeated.”

 _Fenedhis._ She’d not rehearsed this part. “Loranil was partly right. He was another follower of Mythal. I think his _vallaslin_ had been removed in a similar way some time ago.”

She faked a yawn. “ _Ma serannas, hahren._ I think that I might sleep again now.”

As she walked back to the aravel she was sharing with the other women of her new clan, she caught sight of something on the ground nearby: a perfect sprig of arbor blessing, bitten off the vine. Her mark flared as she picked it up, and she looked up through sudden tears. An owl wheeled overhead.

****

No arbor blessing awaited Virlath Al’var Lavellan on her return to Skyhold, nor for the next six months, just reports and delegations. Even the unwanted stream of marriage proposals had dried up. Keeper Hawen had agreed she should remain at Skyhold – a wise decision given that her actual presence with Clan Al’var could hardly aid their peace. The Arlathvhen had passed without incident, although the debates that she had started were still raging. She visited the clan whenever she could, gradually getting them accustomed to non-Dalish companions and slowly making friends, growing trust on all sides. Hawen did not seem to wish to bed her, nor to bind her to any of the other males. Perhaps the lack of _vallaslin_ marked her as pure, a _da’len_ not a woman, ironically enough.

 _Perhaps he’d seen the Dread Wolf in his dreams and been warned off_ , she’d once thought wryly.

The Inquisitor and Josephine sat at the centre of their web of connections, quietly working with Leliana and Celene and Vivienne to ensure peaceful elections for the new College of Enchanters. She’d never been particularly familiar with the workings of the disbanded Circles of Magi, but it wasn’t hard to appreciate how great a change this was for southern Thedas and its people.

Cullen found the politics infuriating, and took the opportunity to train the Inquisition’s forces in Templar tactics to fight demons and mage abominations. To his credit he’d only snapped once, after the banquet held for Summerday, asking Virla if she still missed Solas. _He just left without a word,_ he’d raged, when she’d nodded slowly. _How could anyone be in love with you and still do that?_

“It’s complicated, Cullen. Please… can we speak of something else?” 

He’d got very drunk that night, and Virla had retired early, to meditate before she braved the Fade. Soon after he’d left Skyhold for a while, to fight demons with the Chargers round Lake Calenhad.

Most of her old companions were scattered now: Dorian back home to Tevinter; Cassandra west to the Hunterhorns to follow up a lead on the Seekers. Cole was assisting rescue operations with the Inquisition’s agents where villages had been cut off by earthquakes or the civil war. Blackwall stayed in Kirkwall, resuming his old name of Rainier and seeking to make amends with old comrades.

At nights the dreams were a constant menace. Just as Solas had once said, if an idea giving form to a spirit or demon was sufficiently strong, it would likely rise again. The best you could do was push it far away and watch for its return. Her mark continued acting like a beacon, and even with the protections of her guardian fennec Fen’sulevin, Skyhold’s magic, and the shielding techniques he had taught her, the stronger demons would break through and need to be dispatched directly by her.

The Nightmare in particular caused a recurring dream: Solas slowly suffocating in black smoke; she watched, chained in lyrium and paralyzed, gradually sinking into stone. Every time it changed the way it hid from her, lurking at the corners of her vision. Knowing it was _somewhere_ did not help.

She learned to recognise the patterns, predict roughly when the Nightmare or its malevolent companions would return. Fen’Harel’s title as the Bringer of Nightmares made so much more sense now. Virla often wondered if it was the power in his orb or his innate nature that attracted spirits, and if the demons that she fought had ever been his friends. Away from Skyhold she explored the Fade and slowly lost her fear of spirits, growing more confident in distinguishing their purposes. Sometimes she called for Caritas, and occasionally the otherworldly woman answered, serving tea and cake and listening to her theories. She spoke briefly of her own world: its sun and earth and moon and mountains. It had no magic, but technology instead. Perhaps it was a Titan’s world.

And so time passed.

****

It was a year since she had seen him and Flemeth in the Crossroads. Virla lay on the floor of her chamber, trying to imprint veilfire on the surface of a stone. Beside her lay a careful tracing of a string of complicated runes, and _Veilfire: A Beginner’s Primer_ , by Magister Pendictus. She re-read “Any mage can learn this astonishing technique” and tried again to copy the first runes.

Last week Varric had found a torn and folded poem in a pile of things he’d still had in a chest at Skyhold. He’d been sorting through them to work out what to take back to the Viscount’s residence in Kirkwall. He’d said he’d found it somewhere in Haven, before the avalanche.

The poem came from a Chant for Dreamers, called _The Lover and His Spirit_ , by Magister Oratius. It talked of a man who brought a spirit of love across the Veil three times. The third time caused it to become a demon of desire. She’d never heard of a Chant for Dreamers, nor had she ever met a spirit of love. What had Solas said in Crestwood? _You have a rare and marvellous spirit…_

 _Wishful thinking, da’len,_ she’d chastised herself, and yet… and yet. He’d been so careful not to kiss her outside the Fade, far less constrained within it. Perhaps he’d believed the message of the poem? Was he the spirit of love who could not kiss a maid three times, or had he thought of her that way?

The runes had come from underneath the fresco Solas had painted more than a year ago in the rotunda. She’d no idea if they were his, or if they predated their arrival at Skyhold, like so much else. Somehow Dagna could perceive them through the paint clearly enough to trace their shapes. With a caution that seemed now like second nature, and perhaps even was, Virla had not breathed a word of their existence to anybody else save Varric, who couldn’t see them either. She had had to know if there was something special about the Arcanist, or if every dwarf could see where she was blind.

Virla finished copying the line of runes, and took a breath before summoning veilfire once more to her hand. She held it over the stone, and took another, sharper breath as a voice began speaking in her mind. A voice that she had doubted that she’d ever hear again. In Elvish, not in Common.

_Ghil-dirthalen. Na da’solas ena mir abelas. Ar dirth ma sahlin…_

She shook her head, looking around to convince herself she was not in the Fade. The world felt like it was spinning, anyway. She listened to the words again.

 _Ghil-dirthalen._ It was one of the possible translations of Inquisitor, Solas had once told her: one who guides seekers of true knowledge. The phrase had then reminded her of Ghilan’nain and Dirthamen, of the bear and halla fresco in the stables.

 _Na da’solas_ … Is small pride… _ena mir abelas…_ becoming my sorrow?

 _Ar dirth ma sahlin…_ I speak to you now.

A voice from beyond the grave? Or simply back in time?

And if these runes were written around the whole of the rotunda, as Dagna had suggested, how long would it take to read it all? She’d ask Dorian for a book on ancient Elvish and Josephine for another.

And then two voices echoed in her mind, from memory rather than veilfire:

_Will you talk to me when we are finished with Corypheus?_

_If we are still alive afterward, then I promise you, that everything will be made clear._

 

Virla rocked back on her heels and buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes against the flaring of his mark (and hers). Perhaps it wasn’t until that moment that she really did believe that she had loved the Lord of Tricksters, not just a handsome, clever elven mage who had looked like someone Mythal called the Dread Wolf. To leave a complicated message for her, that she might never even see, that she would have to struggle with, that she could not talk about with anyone around her? Damn the man.

And then, suddenly, she laughed out loud, the world made bright with joy and hope again.

It would be just like learning from a Dalish Keeper.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More kudos than the squares in a chessboard now! Thank you all again. 
> 
> This chapter's been the hardest to write so far, attempting to match it with the last chapter of the fresco story. I wrote that one imagining some kind of ideal Lavellan in Solas' mind, and it's been interesting to try to write a realistic character that still feels like she might have genuinely inspired that ideal. Soon she will be less constrained by Rules as well. _To the inevitable and troubling freedom we are committed..._


	33. Dawnstone correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Though it is an elven magic, I submit that veilfire is worthy of consideration, for they perfected it at the height of their civilization. Certainly, mages often use it as a source of light, for its flame burns without wood or oil. It can also activate dormant spells, which has its uses. Veilfire's true potential, however, is as a medium for writing. Veilfire runes convey more than the literal meaning of their text. Veilfire can transfer a tangible impression of sights, sounds, and even emotions on the reader.”
> 
>  _Veilfire: A Beginner's Primer with Numerous Teachings, Exercises, and Applications_ , Magister Pendictus

The man (god, wolf, whatever) was really far too clever for his own good, thought Virla, as she lifted out the latest tiles checked by Dagna. He’d known she could not resist a puzzle. _Political gambits, broken promises, half-truths: a palace full of motivation_. _And motivation is where great things happen._

Vivienne would have warned her about pride demons: _clever girls outwit themselves_ , and she would have been right as well. But this game of chess, this lesson, was far too fascinating to resist. Virla felt a twinge of conscience each time she hid another Chantry-banned book in her room. Leliana herself was unlikely to object to the books she used, but Virla had no desire to make the political manoeuvring harder than it had been, with a Dalish First the Herald of Andraste amid the Orlesian elves’ rebellion.

_I am an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces. You understand my caution._

It was fortuitous, or perhaps it was no coincidence at all, that Dagna had made her aware of the runes only after almost all her close companions had moved away from Skyhold. Only Josephine remained.

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan had plotted out her strategy carefully. She was copying the runes on thin stone tablets, kept in a locked room off her chamber. Supposedly these were prototypes for new roof tiles for Suledin Keep. She’d planted documents within her desk detailing her experiments with stone enchantments to counteract gravity. After all, Corypheus had raised a temple far into the sky.

For the Arcanist to transport tiles between her chamber and the rotunda office was actually far less strange than most of the other projects Dagna worked on. Virla regretted making Dagna swear on the Suledin Blade, in her first flush of excitement, not to reveal the existence of the runes or to let others see her checking them. Better to play it coolly from the start. _What would Fen’Harel have done?_

 _Given his orb to Corypheus and killed a thousand people,_ said the Inquisitor in her mind. _Even ancient wolf-gods can make terrible mistakes. You need to be very careful._

_Shouldn’t you tell someone?_

****

It was bittersweet to hear and feel his pride, the feelings and images gradually growing clearer from the runes as she translated them. _Your Dalish background repels me. Is it a trap? Fear’s familiar. Wrong to kiss you when you scarcely know me._

If he’d said this directly at the time it would have stung her own pride deeply, but now it simply filled some gaps in understanding. And he’d intermingled it with such heartfelt adoration – however bewildered and confused – it was hard not to be swayed by that.

Virla looked at the runes again. This part where he told a story of a Dalish clan – a family around a campfire – served many functions. In part an apology for his pride, an effort to reach out to her, the faintest hope of futures yet to come… but also a primer in simple words and indications of the greater story. _It rarely hurts to listen,_ came his voice from memory. _Trust is another matter entirely._

But was it listening or trust, when dreaming with her head in runes made the stories come to life?

****

Virla was dreaming, rocked into slumber with Solas’ voice emerging from the dimness. They were sitting beside a campfire in a forest, alone together, both wearing typical Dalish robes. Her hair was long and red in braids down to her waist. Everything was what it should have been.

“You are laughing at me,” he teased.

“You’re just… not what I expected,” she replied. The Elvish formed too easily in her mouth.

She let the dream wash over her, revelling in the presence of his spirit – memory? – in the fantasy he’d written for her. They moved from the firelight to the aravel that waited for them. A simple life, sharing stories, awakening love unmarred by secrets or betrayals, the prospect of a family together.

 _Emma vhenan,_ he whispered, voice fading as he held her close against his chest. So deeply wanted.

And she woke up, one cheek roughly pressed against the tablet, and she was still alone.

****

“Drink up, Skylady. It’s your turn to raise.”

“I really don’t feel like drinking, Varric. And I’m out.”

Varric raised an eyebrow at her, and then another one at Cullen. “So, Curly, did you get her…?”

She was vaguely conscious of Cullen glaring furiously at Varric, before the world went black.

****

The fog rolled in, and out again. Someone was carrying her in their arms, her head knocking against their chest as they fled the darkspawn-ocean. It was a sea of limbs and teeth and wicked eyes. She was drenched in blood and gore. Her rescuer ran with her across a chasm, a bridge appearing as they fled.

There was just the faintest scent of elfroot, then she was bowing to the King of Nugs.

She rubbed her eyes, and tried to focus. It shouldn’t be a nug. It should be a fennec.

“This throne’s made of cheese,” said Fen’sulevin, angrily, grating its claws against the throne. “He’s protecting us from darkspawn with… green cheese?!”

“None of this makes sense,” said Virla. The opening they’d come through had been replaced by a large window, yellow-tinted. Through it she could see another brutal battle between dwarves and darkspawn. “Though I read there were more nugs after each Blight ended. Why?”

“I don’t know!” screamed Fen’sulevin. “But if either of you make me a nug again I’m quitting.”

“Can you actually do that? Quit, I mean. Don’t you have to do what _he_ says?”

Whatever the fennec’s response might have been, it was lost as the cave suddenly lurched upwards. It was a lift pulled up on massive chains of lyrium. Durand’s theory that dragons couldn’t see the colour blue was being refuted once again. Virla breathed a sigh of relief that the lyrium wasn’t red or green, and then wondered why she’d thought that was a good thing.

Gravity overturned itself again and they fell into an ocean of solitary experience, smelling of dragon piss and crimson pigments. Fen’sulevin had disappeared entirely. That… was wrong. There always was a fennec somewhere. Or a spider. No, she was sure it ought to be a fennec. Ten thousand years of the Circle of Magi in Minrathous couldn’t possibly be wrong. It just meant that the Temple of Razikale had been founded before any humans arrived in Thedas. Or history was completely wrong again.

A crow was flying above the waves, weaving in and out of lightning. The other crows were all avoiding the Blight-infested waters, but this one was flying straight for her. Shouldn’t it have been an owl?

“Get us out of here,” it squawked, before it was overtaken by the waves again.

_Oh shit. Oh shit. I didn’t even realise that there was a demon somewhere here._

The ocean suddenly blinked alive with eyes. She screamed.

_Get to the boat, get to the boat, they won’t catch me on water, get to the boat._

This time she got to the boat, where Solas was already lying, blackened and unconscious. Virla cast the Anchor down into the waters. The boat, and Solas, disappeared. She stood on solid ground. The ocean flew apart into tiny droplets of the false Sun’s blood, coalescing into clumps of greenish mist.

_Ah yes. Hello, Terrors one, two and three. How nice of you to join me. Now, who’s first?_

****

“Do dragons piss in different colours?”

On reflection, that was probably not the most reassuring thing she could have said, when she finally stopped retching. Cullen looked beside himself, both literally and not, as he passed the bowl to a doubled Josephine.

She blinked and her vision came back into focus. _Focus. Hah. Still got it, Solas._

Then she blinked again. She didn’t recognise the room. The hangings looked expensive and… Fereldan?

“Where are we?”

“Denerim, Inquisitor,” answered Cullen, frowning. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Virla shivered. _Denerim. Urthemiel. Maybe I’d better get drunk and it will all go away. But no… she’d refused the drinks that Varric offered._

“We were in the Herald’s Rest,” she ventured, slowly. “At Skyhold. Then everything went black.”

She looked around, as if afraid that everything in this room might turn black as well. They had put her in a bed, and she remembered Josephine hastily placing cushions behind her as she retched into a bowl on waking. She sat back against them now, starting slightly as Josie returned with another, empty, bowl, and a double-handled tankard of tepid beer. That they were waiting on her themselves spoke volumes for their dedication to her reputation… or their paranoia.

Virla reached out for the beer, wincing at a sudden pain from the Anchor as she flexed her fingers to wrap around the handles. The green light made the silver tankard shine aflame and she closed her eyes. _Silver, gold, ice, earth. Do you feel the rhythms of their dancing?_

“You fainted,” said Varric, emerging from the depths of an armchair over by the fire, ink staining his sleeves as usual. “Curly wasn’t quite in time to catch you before your head hit the flagstones. We wouldn’t have brought you here. But you kept muttering something like Denerim, and Leliana.”

“And we were due to come here anyway, for a banquet Queen Anora is hosting in honour of the new Divine,” continued Josephine, her hands pressed together in a familiar nervous gesture.

“Did I miss the banquet?” asked Virla. Maybe there would be a chance to talk to Leliana there, find out more about the Fifth Blight. Why had she never asked Leliana more about the Blight?

_Because the Hero of Ferelden died, and then Divine Justinia. Because everyone died to forget._

“Virla can’t go to the banquet,” said Cullen, his hand firmly against her shoulder, pressing it against the cushions. Virla looked at him, distracted by a sudden realisation: _he never calls me Virla either._

“But…” said Josephine, clearly torn between her genuine concern for Virla and a reluctance to have to spend the evening making excuses for the Inquisitor with some suitable cover story.

“The Inquisitor has been barely conscious for a week, and you want to get her out of bed and have her make polite conversation to a bunch of worthless Fereldan nobles?”

“Aren’t you a Fereldan noble yourself, Ser Cullen?” asked Virla, secretly grateful for his intervention. She wasn’t sure if she could actually stand right now.

He looked bemused. “No, what gave you that idea?”

Virla’s attempt to cover her confusion was driven out by another sharp stabbing pain from her hand. This time she almost dropped the beer, doubling over it and feeling the world go black around the edges once again.

_A week. But how? And why’s the Mark so painful now? The thinness of the Veil in Denerim?_

“I’ll have that,” said Varric, taking the tankard and patting Josephine’s arm. “I’ll go with you and talk about repairs in Kirkwall. Or my drafts of _The Inquisitor Lavellan Story,_ there’s bound to be some readers here. We can spin the Inquisitor’s apologies on the way, Ruffles.”

Josephine nodded, looking relieved to have the decision apparently made for her. She must have already planned out what to say, thought Virla, and felt a bit less guilty.

“Do you want to see Leliana, if she is willing to come up here after the banquet?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, Josie. I’m so sorry about… about…”

She closed her eyes and felt the stupid tears still sliding down her cheeks. She wanted… how she wanted… to tell them all about the things she’d read and seen within the veilfire runes, the ones she’d managed to translate so far underneath the first four panels of the fresco. But it could only turn them all even more against Solas. None of them even suspected that he’d been involved in the destruction of the Conclave, far less that there was – in Helsdim’s crazy phraseology – a Secret War.

_A war in the Fade waged with human hate._

Could he no longer see the difference between right and wrong, the expedient versus the justified? Or could he see it all too clearly? Would the remaining panels of the fresco illuminate or darken further?

The only one who might appreciate it all, she somehow felt, was Leliana.

Virla lay back against the cushions, pressing her aching hand to her chest with the other, and wondered if her mind had finally broken into madness. If she were at Skyhold she’d already be up in her chamber working on the runes below the fifth _sa’vunin_. Or if not, surely counting down the hours to it. And then calculating if the demons would break through tonight, or if there’d be a respite.

Almost physical, the pain of knowing that the tablets with his voice were hundreds of miles and many days away. For the last few months she’d used every social trick she knew to hide her tracks, to carve out spaces in the evenings and the nights to dedicate to the rune translation. Make-up to cover the lines under her eyes, and cups of tea and frilly cakes to counteract the tiredness. Excuses not to visit Hawen and her clan.

Just like an addict.

When she opened her eyes, the Commander was still there, in his stupid russet furry pelt over armour touched with dawnstone. He had a look of puzzled comprehension in his eyes, as if he only now had seen the link between lyrium and the Fade-mark in her hand. _A fellow addict_.

Did he also see that it was not a song she craved, not power, but knowledge? _I needed to know why_.

Cullen broke the silence. “Do you have nightmares often, Virla?”

 _My name again._ That meant something, but she wasn’t sure what it might be. She nodded, slowly.

He looked down at his boots, still splashed with mud from riding. “Do you want to talk about them?”

Her initial instinct was to shake her head, deny it all, but… he’d been a Templar. It had been his duty, once, to protect and care for mages. And so, two years too late, she’d tell him something.

“The power of the Anchor attracts demons. I fight the demons nightly in my dreams. It’s hard. I must have fought a thousand now. S… Solas knew. He helped me, showed me how to shape the Fade to help me. It’s like a Bl… Blight inside my head, a constant war. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. Is that how people felt about the Blight when it hit Ferelden?”

Virla felt her voice rising in panic, and forced herself to stop, to listen. Remember she wasn’t the only one alive still in the world.

Cullen sighed. “I don’t know how other people felt. It’s not a time I like to dwell on. My family had to flee the Blight. My parents didn’t make it through.”

“I’m sorry.”

He poured them out more beer, and passed her tankard back from the table Varric had left it on.

“So am I. But my experience of the Blight was far different from theirs.”

“You said you were in the Circle of Magi in Ferelden?”

“I was trapped in a magical prison. When the Hero of Ferelden first arrived, I thought that he and his companions were illusions sent to torment me by the demons.”

He paused. “Do you really want to hear about this?”

“It can’t be any worse than what I’m seeing in my dreams,” said Virla, firmly. “But if you’d rather not tell me, I’d understand that.”

“No, I’d like to tell someone. To tell you,” he said, still looking at his feet. “I’m not good at telling people things.”

_That makes two of us. Or three. Oh, Fen’Harel, archangel or archdemon, who are you? _

“Go on, then, Cullen,” she said, softly. “Tell me about your nightmares first.”

  
  
  



	34. Bloodstone motif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One of the strangest aspects of being an immortal among mortals is the sense of déjà vu, of repetition, fragmentation, re-forming, of others living your own story, again and again..._ – Second _sa’vunin_
> 
> Virla wonders what she can learn about Solas, and the Secret War, from others’ stories.

Cullen had a wry smile on his lips as he lifted his head to meet Virla’s gaze.

“If anyone had told me, thirteen years ago, that I would be working for an organization that was helping the Divine disband the Circles, I’d have told them that they were insane. Back then I was a loyal templar. I thought I knew the Maker’s will, and that meant keeping mages under lock and key. There were times I would have happily thrown away the key.”

Virla realised she was extremely thirsty, and sipped at the beer. She had vague recollections of the journey now – at sea, with Varric or Cullen or Josephine beside her. They’d helped her to drink sips of beer before she slipped away again within her mind. When she’d properly woken they’d been so relieved. Had it really been the blow to her head that had caused the lengthy blackout? They seemed to think so, but she wasn’t sure.

“It seemed to me that templars suffered just as much as mages from the Circles. Leliana told me that in seven hundred years there were nineteen cases where the Right of Annulment had to be carried out. But managing the Harrowings, using the Rite of Tranquillity, must have been more frequent.”

Cullen nodded. “If it had been up to me, there would have been a twentieth Circle utterly destroyed. I am glad that Knight-Commander Greagoir and the Warden disagreed. Did Leliana tell you this as well?”

Virla shook her head. “She’s only told me a little about that time. Mostly for background on Morrigan.”

“I’m not surprised. It was a terrible time. And particularly for Ferelden. King Maric the Saviour disappeared at sea on his way to Wycome, around the time I started my templar training. I must have been… what, thirteen, fourteen? Teyrn Loghain spent two years and most of the King’s own gold in the hunt for him. When he started to blame Orlais the Bannorn put a stop to it: it was diplomatic suicide. They organised a state funeral and then crowned his son Cailan as King. He was already married to Anora, Loghain’s daughter. It was only three years later that the Blight began.”

“And Cailan was killed at Ostagar?” said Virla.

“Yes, that’s right. And the Warden killed Loghain but allowed his daughter to reign on as Queen.”

“S… Solas once told me that he’d dreamt of Ostagar.” She closed her eyes, and tried to reconstruct his cadences. “ _I witnessed the brutality of the darkspawn and the valour of the Fereldan warriors. I saw Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden light the signal fire… and Loghain’s infamous betrayal of Cailan’s forces._ But he said that it was only reflections of emotions in the Fade, and that he could also experience it as _a veteran commander refusing to let more soldiers die in a lost cause._ ”

“Loghain was once a hero too. I find I sympathise more with him now that I’m older.”

“With the weight of commanding a force whose leader is both young and inexperienced?”

He looked embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant, Inquisitor.”

“Isn’t it, though? I was nineteen when we started this. A healer, not a fighter.”

“You’re smart. You can do the politics. I can’t. Anyway, I believed the Maker chose you.”

“A Dalish mage. I must have been your worst nightmare,” said Virla, draining the last of the beer.

As she stretched to put the tankard on the bedside table, Cullen muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Commander, I didn’t catch that.”

“It’s not you that’s my worst nightmare, it’s what you might turn into,” repeated Cullen.

_This is too embarrassing, it’s too close to the bone. Too much, too soon._

But she couldn’t prevent herself from asking it. “You see me in your dreams?”

He flushed, but did not correct her. “Not just you. Have you seen many abominations, Inquisitor? You’ve fought countless demons, darkspawn, dragons…”

“Revenants, arcane horrors, walking corpses, Venatori, Hakkonites,” she continued. “Not many abominations, no. We fought Scout Grandin, I suppose. He’d been possessed by a rage demon.”

“Right. Now imagine people that you’ve worked alongside for months, all suddenly being taken over.”

“What happened?”

“Uldred happened, I suppose. One man, one mistake. They told me he’d succumbed to a pride demon. I believe Leliana’s the only one alive who saw the end of it, since Irving passed away last year.”

“Who was Uldred?”

“A Senior Enchanter in the Circle at Kinloch Hold, and a blood mage. A Libertarian, seeking independence from the Chantry. He wanted to leave the Circle when they wouldn’t support Loghain after Ostagar, but the First Enchanter – Irving – wouldn’t let him. There was a fight. He summoned a Pride demon but it was too strong for him and possessed him. So he became an abomination… and that abomination then turned the other mages into abominations.”

Cullen wiped a hand across his brow, before continuing. “You get to thinking every mage might be a demon underneath, that every mage must be possessed. Uldred was… intelligent and dedicated. And the more cunning the demon, the more easily it hides the fact that it’s possessing someone.”

“Yes, so you can never be quite sure. Do you remember my report on Imshael? He looked human at first, but he changed into different demonic forms. So I’m not sure if he was actually an abomination when we met him, or in a true form. The tales say he was one of the Forbidden Ones. He wanted to be seen as a spirit of choice, but that was an excuse for evil. Michel said he gave Briala a red keystone that allowed her to open the eluvians, and that he possessed Mihris for a time.”

“Mihris?”

“She’s a Dalish elf. I met her once in the Hinterlands and then later at the Arlathvhen. Imshael killed her clan, all except the children. He passed them on to other clans that would struggle to feed them in the winter. The Keepers had a session just to sort that out. Mihris thanked me for killing Imshael.”

“How do the Dalish protect their mages from possession?”

It was a professional interest, from an ex-Templar, but genuine as well, and Virla smiled.

“It was part of my training from Keeper Deshanna to be cautious about spirits and demons, and let the halla guide me in my dreams. It’s why we only have three mages in each clan, so that each mage can have a lot of individual training. I was lucky that the mages in my clan were older so that they had the chance to train me. But not all clans handle it well. Clan Virnehn…”

She paused, and shuddered at a connection she’d not made before.

“What is it, Virla?”

“Virnehn. It means the path of joy. So sad that it all ended like that.”

“It’s similar to your name. Does that mean something too?”

She nodded, half-regretting the turn the conversation was taking. Cullen’s painful honesty made it hard to parry questions. “It means the path of love. I hated it when I was younger. But just because Clan Virnehn was destroyed doesn’t mean that my name must be cursed too. Though sometimes…”

Her voice faded away. There was a silent ghostly presence in the conversation: the memory of Solas. It seemed he was a ghostly presence in every conversation that she had these days.

“Varric would tell you that you have divine bad luck,” said Cullen, getting up to stretch his legs.

“Inquisitor Lavellan: all this shit is weird,” agreed Virla, thinking: _no-one knows the half of it._ “But magic is just another weapon – an assassin’s weapon, yes, but not so much when everyone knows you are a mage. You trust your troops not to turn on each other with their swords, and mostly, they don’t. The real problems come when the other side has a technological advantage.”

“Like the Sha-Brytol’s lyrium weapons, or the Qunari dreadnoughts.”

“Yes. Without the Tevinter Imperium holding the Qunari back with magic – and even that won’t hold forever – we’d all have fallen to a Qunari invasion. You or Cassandra might be all right with that, but I don’t fancy having my mouth sewn together like they do with Saarebas mages under the Qun.”

Cullen brought over a plate: bread rolls spread with butter, and lamb and pea stew to dip them into.

“No, you wouldn’t be able to eat this, then. Do you think that you can eat a little now?”

“Thank you, kindly, good Ser Commander,” retorted Virla, accepting the plate.

“I’m just relieved to see you back with us once again. We don’t have to keep on talking if you’d rather be quiet. You’ll want to talk with Leliana later.”

Virla nibbled at the bread, and found it tasted better than she had expected. “It’s good to talk with you. I’ve mostly talked with Josephine and Dagna recently. Josie’s always planning for the next visit, the next delegation… doesn’t step back to see the bigger picture. Dagna sees nothing but that.”

“I think it’s your turn now, then, Inquisitor. What’s your bigger picture?”

“Are you asking as the Commander, or as Cullen, the former Templar?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“If you’re asking as the Commander, I’d say that the Inquisition needs another purpose of its own now that we’ve closed the majority of the rifts and Gaspard’s no longer threatening to throw Orlais back into civil war. Supporting Divine Victoria in the transition from Circles to the College of Enchanters is a useful task, but we need to take a step back from that, allow Ferelden and Orlais to absorb the issues, resolve them through the Chantry, the Bannorn and the Empress’ court. Looking north, I don’t particularly want to get drawn into what may be another civil war within Nevarra, when King Markus dies. Though some of the Inquisition’s mercenary companies might be drawn away by that.”

“And to Cullen?”

“It’s the red lyrium that worries me. You can smash the crystals into tiny bits, and that prevents it growing at that point, but there are deposits everywhere. It’ll be hard to be sure we’ve got it all.”

Virla paused, and thought about the runes under the fresco, Solas’ suggestion that red lyrium might be veilfrost pulled from the future potential of the Fade, and the lyrium being Titans’ blood.

 _Sahrnia and azure granite._ “Why is it called Redcliffe?” she asked, as the door opened, revealing Josephine with Leliana, dressed in the robes of the Divine, accompanied by Arl Teagan of... Redcliffe.

“Inquisitor,” said Leliana, smiling. “I was most sorry to hear that the voyage left you feeling poorly. Perhaps you will be able to join us for a late dessert. There’s a marvellous tart that has been kept for you to sample. The apples are from Redcliffe orchards, Arl Teagan’s gift to the Palace for this dinner.”

 _Josie plus Leliana trumps Cullen’s attempts to give me a quiet evening._ Virla smiled appropriately weakly in response, reading Leliana’s expression that said _I’m sorry, can you play along?_

“Divine Victoria, My Lord Arl. It is a pleasure to be here, and I apologise for my indisposition. Thanks to this stew and Commander Cullen’s tales of Ferelden, I am beginning to feel rather better now. If you would let me dress then I would be happy to join you for the apple tart.”

“I will let Her Majesty know,” said Josephine, turning as if to go. “Arl Teagan, perhaps you might hold your discussion about Caer Bronach with the Inquisitor when she comes down for dessert? As I did say, my Lord, she is not dressed for company right now. But I am glad to hear you are better, Inquisitor.”

The Arl took the admonishment with surprising grace – he was Ferelden’s ambassador to Orlais, after all. “I would also be happy to explain to the Inquisitor why it is called Redcliffe,” he said, bowing to Virla as he left. Cullen followed out behind them, not hiding his annoyance half so well.

“You wished to have a word with me in private, Virla?” said Leliana, helping her out of the bed and across to the wardrobe where the formal Ferelden clothing hung. “I’m sorry we had to bring the Arl up here, but he was doubtful that you had actually arrived, and I wasn’t sure if you would be awake. Are you sure you’re well enough to come downstairs? Josie thought you might manage a short while.”

It was always so hard to find the time these days with Leliana. She’d have to jump right in. “Yes, I’m fine. How would the Chantry define abominations?”

“A demon possessing a mage. The book _The Maker’s First Children_ states that the strength of an abomination depends entirely on the strength of the demon possessing the mage. Why do you ask?

“I was talking to Cullen about Uldred. When he was in Kinloch Hold.”

“Ah. Yes. That haunts him still, I think, although working with you has helped to change that.”

“Working with me?”

Leliana laughed, and helped adjust the layers of cloth around Virla’s skinny body. “You are getting thin, my friend. You helped Cullen trust mages once again. And because you had never been inside a Circle, that helped too. The fact you are Dalish isn’t always a disadvantage. You can use it.”

“He saw me as a person, and so all mages seemed more like people once again, not monsters?”

“Yes, exactly. But you asked about abominations. Do you remember Cole’s friend Rhys, the mage from the White Spire? I travelled with his mother, Wynne, during the Fifth Blight. She was another mage within Kinloch Hold. I remember a conversation where the Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, asked her a similar question. I’ve never forgotten her answer: madness and cruelty define abominations.”

“I killed Imshael because he had been cruel, and probably mad, not because he was a demon?”

“And you killed Erimond for similar reasons, not because he was possessed.” Leliana looked at the closed door, and sighed. “One thing that I do regret is the Warden killing Arl Teagan’s nephew Connor. He was just a boy, an untrained mage. He’d been possessed by a desire demon, feeding off his desire to see his father healed from a grave sickness. I hoped that we might have found a better way. But the only way that was presented was through blood magic, and the Warden wouldn’t let his mother sacrifice herself for him. So we killed the boy, and Redcliffe’s future also changed because of that.”

She was nearly dressed now, her shaky legs hidden under thick Ferelden skirts. Just time for one more question before the public posturing. “What was the Archdemon like? When you fought it?”

Leliana frowned. “You fear another Blight, without the Wardens here? They say that Urthemiel was once the Tevinter god of beauty, worshipped by musicians, artists and poets. What we fought was maddened, a corrupted dark intelligence. Some of the older Wardens heard it speaking. Maybe you can see Fort Drakon while you’re here, where the final battle was, and we can talk further.”

“Thank you, Leliana. I appreciate that. I’ll do my best to eat the apple tart.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates have been slightly less frequent since I wanted to play through the relevant parts of Dragon Age: Origins again. The section in the Fade is fascinating; I always enjoy wondering what my dwarf Wardens make of it, and their encounters with mages and other races more generally. We'll hear a bit more of this in the next chapter too.


	35. Drakestone switchback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chess problems, a switchback is where a piece leaves a square and then returns to it by the same route.

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the top of Fort Drakon. Leliana had asked for her personal bodyguards to wait out of earshot at the foot of the stairs leading to the rooftop area.

They had talked lightly as they made their way through the ancient fortress: of Fereldan customs, the special place that Denerim held in Fereldan hearts, that Leliana’s mother had called it her home.

_He likes the song. It makes him think of home. / Vir vhenas’shiral. Tarasyl’an Te’las. / A place that waits…_

Leliana’s voice cut softly through the echoes in Virla’s mind.

“This is the third time I’ve been to Fort Drakon, and the only time when I’ve had the opportunity to read up on its history first. It was another outpost of the Tevinter Imperium, before Ferelden was a country. Did they build in the elven style, or was it another elven citadel taken by the humans?”

“There were statues of Andruil and Sylaise on every floor we passed through,” said Virla.

Leliana nodded. “And statues of Andraste in a matching style: a shield instead of sword or flame. Just like the Temple of Sacred Ashes when we went there twelve years ago, or the temple in the Brecilian Forest.”

“They removed them before the Conclave? I didn’t see any elven statues.”

“They were probably locked away before the pilgrimages to Haven started. You know from Skyhold how the décor of past ages comes in and out of fashion. Wise custodians hide but don’t destroy.”

Virla’s lips twitched involuntarily, and at the Divine’s inquiring gaze, explained: “I was thinking of Fen’Harel and how he sealed the elven gods away. The Dalish talk of him as a jailor in the Fade, keeping watch over the prisons of the Creators and the Forgotten Ones. But you made me wonder if he’s more like a curator, waiting until the right Age comes for them to be back in fashion.”

“A curator of gods?”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “It beats trying to become one like Corypheus, I suppose.”

She followed Leliana to a plaque that read: _The Fifth Blight was ended here. We honour those who fought alongside the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and particularly Yovah Aeducan, Paragon and Prince of Orzammar and Hero of Ferelden, who gave his life to destroy the Archdemon. In death, sacrifice._

Leliana had closed her eyes in prayer for her lost friend, and Virla followed suit. His voice whispered.

_Atrast vala, Aeducan. Why weep for the thaigs you could not save? Let Orzammar be enough._

_Urthemiel. No darkness is too dark to save. You too were beautiful once. Ir abelas. Dareth shiral._

The Veil was thin here. If she concentrated, she could feel the memories, taste both despair and victory under a red-black sky. Knights with Redcliffe shields, the Wardens, armoured dwarves; a younger Leliana shooting arrows into darkspawn hides; an older mage she’d never met but suspected might be Wynne; and over there… a dark red dragon: Urthemiel. Virla flinched as the Archdemon turned and breathed out pure corruption, a blast of purple-black flame that caused a nearby hurlock to explode.

The Anchor flared in sympathetic pain, and Virla cried out. “ _Fenedhis!_ ”

Leliana’s eyes snapped open, focusing back into the present. “What was that? A memory?”

Virla clenched her left hand, placed her other hand around her wrist. “You didn’t feel it?”

“I would expect you’re much more sensitive to the Fade than me. I felt a wave of sadness, nothing more.”

“I could see a vision of the final battle here. You fought it on this rooftop. I saw Alistair, Arl Eamon, dwarves with the insignia of the Legion of the Dead. Your hair was shorter then,” she ended, lamely.

Leliana nodded, frowning slightly. “More practical for war, to fit it under a helmet. I’m tempted to cut it short again now I have to wear these Chantry robes and headdress all the time.”

“You could ditch the headdress and wear it loose like the pictures of Andraste,” said Virla, smiling up at the Divine. “You might even get Bull to convert to Andrastianism then.”

They walked over to the battlements, and looked north-east towards the Amaranthine Ocean, sapphire under palest blue.

“I was only just older than you are now when we fought the Archdemon here. I had never been so terrified before, nor since, nor so certain I was exactly where the Maker wanted me to be.”

_As certain as is possible, assuming I can plausibly predict…_

“In my limited experience, those moments tend to be rare. I think all of us doubted our own abilities at times, while we were fighting against Corypheus…”

Virla trailed off, and Leliana briefly placed a hand on hers, cold against the old stone parapet.

“We never doubted you, you know. I am sure the Maker sent you to us; whether it was through Andraste or Divine Justinia, and no matter how that mark came on your hand, it was you, not the mark itself, who gave us hope, who encouraged us to work together. You reminded me of Warden Aeducan: each of you representing something larger than yourself. Love is the Maker’s best gift and is infinite.”

“Why else would an elven apostate help crazy Chantry folk close a hole in the sky?” quoted Virla, softly.

“Did Varric say that? That sounds like the sort of thing he’d say.”

“Yes, but not to me.”

“To Solas, then?”

“We were in the Hinterlands. And Varric attributed it to boundless optimism, not to… love.”

Virla sighed. It was painfully obvious that Solas had never stayed out of love for her, that the love had been a fearful mystery to him. Any more of this and the carefully rebuilt walls around her heart would crack. Time to change the conversation.

“We’d just found more of Tyrdda’s saga, I think. Do you ever think that the Golden City was too perfect, that it left no room for freedom?” asked Virla, desperate to change her train of thought.

“Or for creativity? “ _Then in the centre of heaven He called forth a city with towers of gold, streets with music for cobblestones and banners which flew without wind. There, He dwelled, waiting to see the wonders His children would create… but their songs were the songs of the cobblestones._ ””

“I was thinking of: _Told his tribes a tale of treasure, over sea to north it gleamed. Whispered words to drive the droves to golden city where he dreamed. Counselled quick in dreams alone, voices wiser man ignores._ ”

Leliana’s quick memory skipped on a few verses. “ _North to warmth, and golden cities, whispers speak in Dreamers’ ears! Silver scorched, the liar flies on raven’s backs, to dream unwaking._ ”

Virla turned away from the parapet, and they looked south to Dragon’s Peak and the Brecilian Forest beyond it. “I wish that I could understand what it all means. One short lifetime seems scarcely enough to get my head around all these mysteries, and every hour spent in books is one fewer actually doing something to stem the Blight. The time we spent with the Legion of the Dead… the dwarves are dying all the time, and what are we doing about that?”

“You’re still young, Virla.”

“That’s not the point.”

Leliana didn’t press the issue, and Virla knew she must have thought the same herself. “After the Hero’s body was returned to Orzammar, Queen Anora sent Fereldan troops to fight with the Legion of the Dead. With Gaspard no longer threatening Ferelden she may be willing to send them there again. They’ve slowly reclaimed thaigs throughout the decade, and you added Heidrun Thaig to that score as well.”

“I heard that the Hero was King Bhelen’s brother?”

“Yovah was the second son, senior to Bhelen. An exiled prince. He was framed for the murder of King Endrin’s eldest son, Prince Trian. I think he suspected Bhelen had a hand in that, but his loyalty to his family, and his pride in the Aeducan name, was stronger than his will for vengeance. Though I think it hurt him deeply. He blamed himself for Trian’s death, and that the losses destroyed his father. He put his brother on the throne, and in return his brother allowed him to be buried as a prince beside his father.”

“Would he have been a better king than Bhelen?”

It was Leliana’s turn to put on a dwarven accent. “You don’t need a king to face a Blight, but a Paragon!”

“Was that what he said?”

“Actually that was Oghren, on one of the rare occasions he was sober. One of our other companions. Named his son Yovah. And yes, I’m sure he’d have been a better king than Bhelen, but he had spent the time that Bhelen spent in politicking, learning armed command and how to fight a war. Yovah was what Ferelden needed. Though I think the dwarven Assembly made him Paragon for finding Caridin’s Anvil of the Void: I got the impression a surface Blight is a respite for the dwarves. I expect you found the same.”

Virla nodded, then was struck by a further thought. “I meant to mention something to you. Josephine found a torn page tucked into papers on her desk. It appeared to be from Shaper Valta, but how it got there we don’t know. It was written after we’d found the Guardian, said she _fell into a warm light’s embrace._ The Chant says something about fire at the heart of the world.”

“ _You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only yours to give._ Transfigurations 12:6. But how could they be connected? And the Chant has many references to fire.”

“I don’t know. They might not be connected at all.”

“Or in Exaltations, the verse about the ninth sacred mountain: _Whatsoever passes through the fire is not lost, but made eternal. As air can never be broken nor crushed, the tempered soul is everlasting!_ ”

“I don’t think I know that Canticle at all,” said Virla.

“It was written by Kordillius Drakon, in -12 Ancient. Around the time Emerius was renamed Kirkwall, soon after the Deep Roads west to Kal-Sharok were sealed…”

“And thirty years before Inquisitor Ameridan disappeared,” completed Virla.

“Yes, so he would have known it, being Drakon’s closest friend.”

“I wish we’d had more time to talk to him.”

“Are you tempted to seek out the ancient elves from the Temple of Mythal? They must be somewhere.”

Virla shook her head. “It might be dangerous for them: immortals can be quickened into ageing if they have contact with us mortal folk. It seems unfair to them to search them out.”

“Is that why Flemeth stayed out in the Wilds alone all those years?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe she just got tired of outliving all her friends.”

“Is that why Solas left us, do you think?”

It was the first outright admission from her friend that she believed Solas to have been an ancient elf, immortal, like… Ameridan. Virla had not connected Ameridan’s ritual with the Hakkon-dragon with what the fresco whispers had disclosed: _In possessing the archdemons, I controlled where they went._ Had she translated the Elvish incorrectly? It was entirely possible.

“Virla?”

When she still didn’t respond, Leliana put an arm around her. “Perhaps he will come back to see you. Perhaps he will decide it’s worth the risk of growing old to be with you. You are young, you have time.”

Virla thrust the whispering runes back into the shadows where they’d come from, and wiped away a treacherous tear. “When the Dalish talk of age difference in relationships it’s not usually measured in centuries. It’s hard to comprehend how ancient elves must think of us.”

Leliana tightened her arm, then hummed as if she’d had a sudden thought. “Maybe we should seek out Shale. She wouldn’t remember much to help us, but the comparison with Solas might surprise you. She was born a dwarven woman, centuries ago, was made into an immortal golem by the Anvil we destroyed. When we first rescued her, she spoke of how the people slipping past were like tiny insects. Solas never made us feel like that, as if we were unimportant or beneath his notice. I’m sure he cared for you.”

The sun was dipping low, and there were further feasts to dress for in the Palace halls tonight. Leliana released her arm, as if embarrassed suddenly by the show of affection. Virla wondered who lay in her past, to give her confidence to speak of love and loss as if they were familiar friends.

“He did care for me,” agreed Virla, eventually. “He told me that just after we killed Corypheus. Just before he disappeared. _Whatever happens, what we had was real._ ”

“But he didn’t tell you why he left?”

Virla shook her head. They had walked over to the western parapet, close to the boundaries of the city. Leliana shaded her eyes to look towards the sun.

_The sun. The Chantry sun. Andraste holding up the sun, gold-handed. Fire and flame, and a mosaic of Fen’Harel, beneath a sun. Elgar’nan forcing the sun into the abyss. A warm light’s embrace._

_Sun through the ashes in the sky. Counting birds against the sun. A soft dawn. The dawn will come._

If she could only make sense of it!

Virla turned away, to walk back to the stairs that would lead back down through the muddled iconography, the temple-citadel-turned-prison. And then she heard an agonising cry, and spun around.

Leliana lay on the ground, an arrow through her shoulder, sharp and feathered with black. By some unlucky chance it must have pierced right through whatever protective clothing she was wearing below the robes. Virla crouched down, and began to pulse familiar healing magic, staunching blood. When the bodyguards came she was ready with her answer.

“Get me elfroot, dawn lotus, bandages, quick. Someone’s tried to assassinate the Divine!”

  
  
  



	36. A midsummer stone’s dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysander loves Hermia, and Hermia loves Lysander. Ghilan’nain loves Demetrius; Demetrius used to love Ghilan’nain but now loves Hermia. Elgar’nan, Hermia’s father, prefers Demetrius as a suitor, and enlists the aid of Fen’Harel, the Lord of Tricksters, to enforce his wishes upon his daughter. Multiple references to [Under the Fresco](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210/chapters/10448910). Do spirits dream of [fairy chess](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fairy_chess)? All the boards in DA: Origins are 10x10.

Virla stayed for a further week in Denerim, ensuring Leliana healed fully from her shoulder wound and joining Queen Anora and Arl Teagan in their insistence that the Divine’s assailant be tracked down. Virla and Varric talked about the force and accuracy required to shoot one arrow to the top of the tallest tower in Denerim, and wondered how much luck or skill had been involved. Leliana murmured tales of Kordillius Drakon’s wife, Empress Area, shooting wings off a bumblebee at a hundred paces. The deathroot on the arrow barb had been a poison anyone might have obtained. A talented amateur with a grudge, perhaps?

Virla sought out spirits who had dreamed of ten years past, finding the memories she sought. The Hero fighting Gaxkang in a lodging-house off an alleyway, with Leliana, Wynne and Shale; Zevran and the Crows who tracked him down; the execution of Loghain; darkspawn in the alienage and market districts. And, easiest of all to find, the shockwave from the top of Fort Drakon on Urthemiel’s and Yovah’s deaths: a beacon of pure light, the sharp white line in everybody’s mind between _the Blight_ and _the rebuilding_.

As Leliana recovered she told Virla a little more of those dark times for Ferelden: of dragonlings and demons within Kinloch Hold, and Cullen’s terrors. Of cultists, ash wraiths and the holy brazier in the mountain-temple complex that was the Temple of Sacred Ashes, once; and the spirit gauntlet to the Urn. Of Orzammar and Bownammar, the City of the Dead; her first sight of Urthemiel, breathing violet flame over trenches where its darkspawn army marched. Of the curse of rage that sprang from Witherfang/the Lady of the Forest at Keeper Zathrian’s command. Virla remembered Zathrian’s successor Lanaya from the Arlathvhen as one of the Keepers who’d spoken in her favour, and resolved to seek her out again.

There was one other who might aid her, still, since they were away from Skyhold. The night before they were due to sail for Jader and return to Skyhold, Virla stepped away from Denerim and called for Caritas.

****

The room was much the same as it always had been: the chairs, the divan, the table, music playing. Two years since she’d first been here, desperately seeking Solas after his near-death at Sulevin. Virla sat beside the woman and took a closer look at her. Were those darker circles beneath her eyes a sign of ageing? Was she two years older now since they’d first met, or less or more?

“Does time pass in your world just like it does in ours?” she asked, after a pause.

“Yes, I believe so. I can only see your world for certain periods, through some perspectives. Not just your world, as we discussed, but other Fade-reflections of it: similar but different.”

“How far back can you go? And how far forward? And what happens when I call you? How does it know what time in your world it should choose to find you?”

Caritas poured herself some tea, and sat back to drink it, sipping slowly as she replied. “I wondered if you’d ask that now, given your conversations with Leliana. I can go back to the time of the Fifth Blight, look through the perspective of the Hero of Ferelden from a little time before Ostagar. I can see Kirkwall from Hawke’s perspective, around the time the Chantry was destroyed. I have some records that pertain to Maric and Loghain when they were young, and a diary of Garahel’s twin Isseya telling of events round the Fourth Blight. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it seems that griffons aren’t actually extinct.”

Virla’s heart beat faster. “The griffons aren’t extinct? Even Solas thought they were.”

“So did everyone, until two years ago. He might know it by now. Or maybe not. You should really keep that to yourself.” Caritas looked nervously up at the ceiling. “I should not have told you that.”

Virla chuckled, darkly. “I can keep a secret. Everyone thought that dragons were extinct, as well. Maybe everything endures a winter before it comes back into bloom. Can you show me my world from Hawke’s perspective? Or from Paragon Aeducan’s? Can I read Isseya’s diary?”

Caritas nodded, biting her lip, and placing her tea back on the table. “But not yet. And I can’t tell you how much further I can see into the future, in case it affects… events. There may be times that I can’t answer when you call me. If I’m working on something else or with somebody else, I can’t just leave it.”

“Can you hear me when I call your name from Skyhold?

“I don’t know. Have you been trying from there?”

“Yes, I’ve tried it many times. I assumed that its old magic must prevent you hearing me, just like it keeps most of the demons out.”

“Perhaps it needs a stronger signal when you say my name. A curved mirror might work. Do you know what a parabola is? If you don’t, I bet Dagna does, even if she calls it something different.”

Caritas opened a drawer that was hidden under the table, sliding out flat parchment and a short black stick. She sketched a pair of lines at right angles, then drew a curve passing through their crossing point.

Virla leaned forward as the woman drew a couple more straight lines. “If the distance here to here is a given number, then the distance here to here is that number multiplied by itself. The same for all the points on this curve. If you make a shape that has this curve in every cross-section, there’s a point that you can whisper which will push the sound out louder.”

“Like the surface of an egg? Or half an egg?”

“Yes, approximately. You have to get the shape just right,” she warned, then thinned her lips. “If Dagna doesn’t know it, then she’ll soon work out that you can use these as a weapon too. I expect she’ll find they are rather hard to make in practice in your world, but that won’t stop her. There’s a story in our world that a great mathematician set an invading fleet alight with this idea, two thousand years ago.”

Two thousand years. _The kingdom trembled at the Titan’s hymn._ A weapon to use if the Qunari came? Virla frowned at the parchment, committing the idea to memory. Could she make this mirror in the Fade?

A stifled noise escaped from the woman beside her. “Like an egg… no, sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Caritas composed herself. “No, I really shouldn’t. When are you travelling back to Skyhold?”

“Tomorrow. Leliana’s better and I’m tired of watching Arl Teagan’s attempts to court Queen Anora. He’s always trying to put me in the wrong to show how he’d defend Ferelden from the Orlesian Inquisition.”

“As a strategy I suppose it has its merits. Anora used to adore her father, before he got so paranoid.”

“You think she hasn’t married because no-one matches up to him? I saw that statue she commissioned for him, standing guard outside the Orlesian Embassy. She leaves flowers there each year. Yes, you may be right.” Virla sighed, and stood up. “I guess I can expect more of this, unless he gives up on the courtship. And the Anchor gets more painful every week, despite my attempts to numb the pain.”

Caritas nodded, her eyes compassionate as she also stood to say goodbye to Virla. “Yes. You are doing very well to keep that quiet too, but we don’t have time to waste. There’s more trouble to come.” She glanced up once more at the ceiling, adding as Virla walked to the mirror, “For us both, I fear.”

****

The attack in Denerim wasn’t the only assassination attempt on the Divine that year. After they returned to Skyhold, and Leliana had gone back to Val Royeaux, the attempts continued: poison in the kitchens of the Grand Cathedral; more stray arrows; hidden weapons in the crowd; and threatening messages, warning the Divine to cut ties with the Inquisition, stop defending elves and mages. An uneasy peace was holding in Orlais, with their allies working hard to keep it that way. _Remember that we closed the rifts!_

The pressure on the Inquisitor was building from the outer world as well. Veilfire in the evenings, demons in the night time, and threats and pleas and delegations in the day. But there were consolations. Dorian sent her gossipy letters from Tevinter, and Vivienne expensive flowers. Varric came to stay more often, told her that she’d saved the world, could take time off, should get more sleep. Cullen agreed and scheduled regular times off for them all, with Josephine and Varric telling stories while he challenged her to chess. Virla hoped his love for her would find a way to dim back into friendship and affection. If she were going to die soon to assassination or the Anchor’s pain, that was certainly for the best.

And she was still translating Solas’ hidden gift to her.

Virla had an iron storage chest locked up with the tiles, with rolls of parchments carrying everything that might be useful: Morrigan’s translations from the Temple of Mythal; songs by Maryden and other bards; every scrap of Dalish legend that Hawen or Deshanna knew; every word she could remember Cole or Solas saying; Gatsi’s mosaic commentary; those strange letters from Shaper Valta (all three they’d found).

The Inquisitor’s desk downstairs was comparatively tidy, her office enlivened only by the fresco and a neat display of fifteen dwarven dragon statuettes she had collected. This upstairs chest contained… a mess. But when she delved in it, to read another parchment, piece the jagged shards together, she felt more like the Keeper she’d been trained to be, and less like an imposter Herald of Andraste, misguiding the Divine.

Take Cole’s sayings, for example: which of them referred to Solas? She’d asked him, but he didn’t know.

_Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds. / He hunts the killer, but he’s the one who killed her. He can’t remember. / He didn’t kill his father. He was his father. / There is no other man. He becomes the other man to do the things he can’t. / He was the boy who was supposed to die. He named himself after the horse. / He was dead the whole time. He didn’t know. / Never trust half an elf._

The veilfire runes were adding to the horror and confusion: _the orb with all the dead dwarves in it / my body has changed many times / The Nightmare fed. / I am a liar, and a madman. / I felt terrible jealousy. / Vhenan. If you truly knew me… / I am nothing. Mundane, banal, **banal**. Not even half an elf. / I know she’d have to walk through hell for this. / I think of you, and Razikale. It’s only then I weep._

Possessing the archdemons (if the translation was correct) should have shocked her more than it actually did. The dreams over the past year had given her so many hints about his connection to the Nightmare demon, that living monster of the Fade, that it had almost been a relief to know she was not imagining that link. Though the reference to the dragon Razikale frankly terrified her. What did it mean?

Virla had tried to bend a mirror in the Fade and use it to call to Caritas from Skyhold, but it didn’t work. Those lessons with Solas on creating flowers, painful to remember in their sweetness now, doubly so when mingled with the runes around that time, had drawn upon her years of studying herbs. Persuading glass or wood to bend was something new. Even after she’d asked Josephine to find a real mirror for her room so she could start with a memory of that, it was too hard to fix the shape in mind. Instead she gave the idea over to Dagna and asked her to make a model of it. _It’s for Suledin_ , she’d say, if she were asked.

While Dagna worked she visited Clan Al’var again in Dirthavaren, speaking to Caritas in the Fade at nights.

“How can he say that Sera is Andruil? Why does he compare Josephine to Ghilan’nain? He says the other players are predictable. Is he trying to help me picture the Creators as people, or is it something more?”

“Is it some kind of ancient elvhen metaphor, perhaps? Andruil’s famous for her hunting skills.”

Virla frowned, absently rubbing her thumb against the Anchor. “The last part I translated said: _Andruil had forgotten. I’m your ex… also still your brother… To turn my past to future and to help me call her Sera._ ”

“That could mean that Sera was Andruil – has her soul, or spirit. But it could also mean she simply reminded him of Andruil but he wanted to move on, not be reminded of that. Think of her as Sera only.”

“Affected by his time in _uthenera_? Perhaps. If so, he generally hid it very well, I think.”

Caritas looked amused. “If so, he has you to thank. Would you like to see how Solas copes in related worlds? Where you’re not the Herald of Andraste, where a different person has the Anchor?”

“Yes. Am I alive or dead in those worlds? Or did I never exist?”

“Good question. It may be that you never existed, but I can’t be sure. As far as I can discern, the differences between the worlds stem from the time of the Fifth Blight, but they might go back before.”

Caritas pulled a device out from another drawer that Virla hadn’t realised was there, and turned controls until the mirror flickered into life. The picture focused on a slim blonde elf, with Dirthamen’s _vallaslin_ outlined in turquoise on her face. She was running up snow-covered steps, the Breach in sight, Cassandra following close behind. Virla felt a wave of bittersweet longing for that innocent time, then cursed herself for a fool. The Breach was closed, Corypheus was dead. In this world, that could not be certain. _Telanadas._

“She’s called Telanada. This is the first time she meets Solas. The Solas of _this_ world, that is.”

Virla watched intently as the elven woman ran into the remains of the Temple complex, shot out lightning and fire at shades just like she remembered doing. Demons dead, Solas ran up, frowning with intent and fear, and grabbed her wrist, pointing it at the cluster of emerald crystals that marked out a rift.

“Quickly, before more come through!”

The mark flared and it closed the rift. “What did you do?” asked this strange past self of hers.

“ _I_ did nothing. The credit is yours.”

“That’s just what he said to me,” whispered Virla, nostalgia sharpening, and Caritas nodded. They watched in silence for a minute, Virla noticing all the tiny tells of emotion in Solas that she’d never seen back then. Telanada asked a question she had never asked: how had he kept her mark from killing her?

“Healing magic and minor wards, but I fear your mark is now past the point where those will help you.”

The images stopped on stones veined with green. _In between Redcliffe’s red clay and Sahrnia’s blue._ Virla turned to Caritas. “Would he have said the same in my world? About his healing of my mark.”

“I assume so. Are you wondering how much more information you can get by viewing these?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you if it might save your life, or his, or someone else you love, some day?”

Caritas fiddled with the device again. “I would, yes. You might want to brace yourself for this one, Virla. In this world the Inquisitor’s a Dalish man called Ghoriel. From Clan Lavellan, by the way.”

“We had no kinsman of that name. Do I take it that he hadn’t fallen in love with Solas?”

The other woman laughed, but not unkindly. “He couldn’t have been more different from you.”

Virla watched as Ghoriel climbed over spars of wood to get to the unpainted rotunda. He wore Sylaise’s vallaslin but he was, perhaps, a rogue, from the way he walked? A wolf in the guise of a healer?

“Inquisitor,” said Solas, turning round with menace in his eyes. “Tell me. How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” asked the dark-haired elf, green eyes widening in apparent bafflement.

“Being you. Are you blissfully unaware, or, deep inside, is some part of you banging on the walls, screaming?”

“If you have a problem, spit it out,” said Ghoriel. “I don’t have time for your feelings.”

“Of course. Any criticism must be the crazy knife-ear whining. Are you relieved to have mages back under control? Perhaps when you’re done, you can leash them like the Qunari do.”

“I wouldn’t have had to do that if mages hadn’t blown up quite so many Chantries.”

“Yes, I’m certain they did that with no provocation,” snapped Solas in return. “I should thank you, Inquisitor. I had spent time with few of your people before this. From the stories, I thought your people thuggish, simple and crude. Now?” The images cut as if pieced from different spirits, while Solas shook his head, eyes narrowed. “Now I know I was right. You have no idea what a comfort that is.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Solas. Will you be taking your leave?”

Virla felt her heart grow heavy at the sight of the regret in Solas’ eyes. “No.”

“No?” asked Ghoriel, surprised.

“We have a world to save. Until I see a better option, I will stay and lend my services to this Inquisition.” He walked off to his desk, frowning with disappointment. “Perhaps one day you will even listen.”

“And did he listen?” asked Virla, saddened by what she saw. And yet she felt a certain pride: _If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours, have I misjudged them?_ She’d convinced _her_ Solas.

“Yes, they both did, sometimes,” said Caritas. The images changed once more.

“I simply see no way to help the elves, oppressed as they are now,” said Solas to Ghoriel.

“The man who has lived half his life in the Fade has no ideas?”

“Not unless we collapse the Veil and bring the Fade here so that I can casually reshape reality, no.”

The images cut back to Ghoriel. “Ma halani. Lasa ghilan!”

“How many Dalish would listen?” asked Solas, and Virla sat forward, longing to reach out through the mirror to him, and say _I would._ “Most care little about improving their lives. They already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of elven lore. I might reach a few, at most. But… you are right. That is more than I reach doing nothing. I suppose I’m just tired of fighting.”

“What do you mean, you’re tired of fighting? Fighting what?”

Solas met his gaze and held it. “Did you think I honed my magical skills to impress spirits? I have joined my share of causes. But when I offered lessons learnt in the Fade, I was derided by my enemies… and sometimes by my allies. Liar. Fool. Madman. There are endless ways to say someone isn’t worth listening to. Over time, it grinds away at you.”

“If you’re tired of losing, you might consider winning.”

Solas chuckled deeply, “You’re right. I’ve given that advice to others in the past. Apparently I needed to hear it myself. Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Inquisitor.” _You needed hope. I found it for you._

Virla stared down at her hands, as if to check the mark still resided there and had not passed to some other elf through Fade-reflection. After some moments, Caritas gestured at the mirror. “One last one.”

A dark-skinned dwarf was asking Solas about demons, in a half-painted rotunda. She appeared to be on better terms than Ghoriel had been. _The fresco looks the same_ , thought Virla, stifling disappointment.

“What about the one I fought at the Seeker fortress?”

“The one being commanded by Corypheus? If a man sets fire to your house, do you lay the blame upon the torch he carried?”

****

When Virla returned to Skyhold, it was with new thoughts to ponder. How did Caritas achieve this power, to see so clearly into other worlds as well as hers? _Power is always disturbing, and powerlessness more so._

But when she translated the next runes, unease was swept out by despair and rage. And jealousy. _You chose to be that Dalish girl. Could you even tell me of your world?_ Had Solas ever truly loved her, or was it Caritas’ presence that he felt?

The Inquisitor seized the stone reflector Dagna built and screamed into the Fade.

  
  
  



	37. The value of veridium peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Virtus semper viridis_ : Virtue is always flourishing (lit. green). 
> 
> Chess piece values: first calculated as 1/3/3/5/9 for pawn/knight/bishop/rook/queen in the 18th century, but dependent on position and the stage of the game. A trapped knight is virtually worthless.

“Am I real?” growled Virla, as soon as she stepped through the mirror, and saw that Caritas was there.

“Asking the question tends to prove you are,” said Caritas. “If you can ask yourself if you exist, you do.”

Virla stalked furiously across the room, the Anchor glowing, lightning tingling at her finger ends. Caritas stood up, only slightly taller than her, hair dark brown to Virla’s fiery red. _I will not kneel to a human._

She shoved her left hand, palm up, in front of Caritas’ face. Words spilled out, reckless, angry. “You know that’s not what I mean. Did I exist before I got this mark, before I woke up in the cell, before you started watching? Do I actually have parents? Did I ever live with Clan Lavellan? Are my memories of Deshanna real, or did you place them in her mind and mine? Am I like Cole, a spirit who took on a body? Tell me!”

Caritas’ mask of calmness slipped completely, and she looked terrified, her eyes fixed on the ceiling fan. The room began to shake and melt, the surface of the mirror crackling with energy.

“P… please don’t do that here, not now,” she stammered. “M... magic will attract attention!”

Virla clenched her fist and followed her gaze. “What’s up there? Are you frightened of spirits watching?”

Caritas nodded, hands trembling as she reached into the hidden drawer. She scribbled on a scrap of parchment which she thrust at Virla. _Go through mirror. Don’t contact me. I’ll find you when I can. Go!_

If someone with the power to turn back time in all those worlds was more scared of whatever listened than of her magic, perhaps she should be as well. Despite the questions on her lips, Inquisitor Lavellan turned and ran. As she passed through the mirror, the paper in her hands burst into flames.

****

It was only after Virla woke, and insisted to herself that she was real, that she remembered the memories that the Nightmare took. Divine Justinia had sacrificed herself so that she could escape back through the rift that lay beneath the Breach, and live. _This one was the first, and it is the key._

_It’s not for you. It’s for the world. It’s not all about you, you idiot. Yet… I do matter._

Solas had believed that somebody (his twin? Corypheus?) had found her for him. That Caritas had chosen to be her, whatever that meant. So many worlds so similar, the only difference being who had held the orb, or been the hero. Did the Fades of all the worlds connect? _Tiny details matter. Individuals are crucial. Not only the obvious pivots…_

An image came to her, of dwarven gears and mechanisms. Many people saw her as a pivot, a force round which the world might turn, new doors be opened. So had Divine Justinia’s spirit in the Fade: _Yours are footsteps that move mountains in both worlds…_ the thread pulled by the mark.

Virla dressed and went downstairs, began to leaf through all the paperwork that had built up upon her desk in the rotunda, but found it hard to focus on it. Who was Solas/Fen’Harel, and had he… did he… truly love her? She could not see the runes that lay below each _sa’vunin_ , but she knew their placings off by heart. The Breach with its Dalish family, the howling wolves that lay above the Herald’s Rest, the…

Her eyes caught on the wheel of time, struck by sudden memory. The dwarf that Caritas had showed her, whose name she didn’t even know… the fresco there had _not_ been quite the same. Instead of Redcliffe, there had been something else, a chevron, and upside-down grey battlements. It hadn’t been entirely visible, and she’d been looking at the wolves, and listening to that other Solas’ voice. _If a woman sets fire to your heart, do you lay the blame upon the torch she carries?_

Corypheus controlled the Nightmare, once, as his _veiled hand_ , and had been connected to the red lyrium dragon too. The Nightmare had controlled the Wardens, surely through their darkspawn taint, to fake the Calling: a version of an Archdemon’s song. The true Calling filled the Wardens’ minds with bliss, so Leliana said; the Nightmare’s song was surely fear. What was it Solas said within the Fade? _Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, pride, compassion... every emotion save perhaps desire._

 _So turn desire to purpose, and swallow pride._ She’d have to want to know the truth more than she feared it. Whether she was Caritas’ torch, or Hawen’s First, or pawn to Fen’Harel, the Queen to Falon’Din and Dirthamen, key to salvation, or simply Virla, she’d have to walk _this_ path, _vir lath sa’vunin_.

He’d said it led to hell. But where else would a Dalish seek Fen’Harel?

****

The runes were getting stranger, Virla thought, as Solas’ voice led through the memories of the Temple of Mythal. He compared her to Sylaise, the healer, himself to June, wondering how there was ever a way for them to be together. He asked: _ought I to give you up?_ and said: _This world needs scouring._ She shivered. He once used an archaic form of you as if he tried to distinguish between her and Caritas, before abandoning the attempt. Struggling to absorb what observations told him must be true.

 _It hardly makes sense to me, either, ‘ma lath,_ she whispered into silence. Caritas had not yet found her, even when she slept in Jader, there to meet Varric off his ship again, this time bringing Cole. She found herself ridiculously pleased to have Cole’s company again, as if his realness emphasised her own.

She reached the last _sa’vunin_ , with apologies for Crestwood that were not apologies. _I must twist your heart_ _until it burns, and freeze my own._ _You now have choice._ She still took comfort from his voice, even as it cracked and burned within her heart and mind. _I still love you. I pray to you to save me. You are trying to understand. I will hold on to that hope. I will endure. I must not cry._

Yet he said to Cole: _in solitude, forever._ And to Mythal: _I’m sorry_. Broken into pieces like the orb.

It was getting hard to think it through, her mind made dull by tiredness and fatigue. The mark was pulsing pain high up her arm by the time she finished the last glyphs, unsoothed by elfroot poultices or wards or magic, or all three. Stepping into the Fade brought no relief. She wouldn’t let them drug her sleep with embrium, too frightened that she couldn’t fight the demons when they sought her, and so kept quiet still about the pain, about the runes, about almost everything that mattered.

How long it seemed since she had let him watch her sleep and guard her nightmares, naively trusting.

And if by some miracle she saw him once again, would she ever let him do the same?

It seemed more likely that she’d have to die to see him.

****

The night that she finished, Virla was standing close by the fresco, watching him paint that final _sa’vunin_. As part of a memory conjured by veilfire, there was no way to comfort him, even here in the Fade.

“I thought you might come here,” said Caritas, leaning over the balcony. She looked proud, almost smug, as if she’d solved some kind of puzzle. It was oddly reminiscent of Sera when she’d pranked someone.

The memory of Solas disappeared as Virla shook her head to clear it. “How did you get here?”

“I cheated,” said Caritas. “Like pulling a singing nug out from under a hat. There was a weakness under the rotunda where a sufficiently determined individual could get in. I’ve fixed it now, don’t worry.”

Virla supposed that the security of Skyhold’s wards was something that the Inquisitor would have worried about when she woke, but for now it was the least of her concerns. She felt… relief and pride, that the human woman had survived, and wondered at herself. Was this some kind of demon’s trick?

Caritas walked downstairs and into the rotunda. “It’s taller than I remember it, this room,” she muttered.

Virla laughed. That was what she always thought, as well. The fresco towered over them, with its watching eyes and dancing pawns and hidden runes. “I meant, how did you get into the Fade at all? Not Skyhold.”

“It was a game, but more than a game,” said Caritas. “Remember that? The Hissing Wastes?”

“The boy got a family. He wanted his old one. Give people what they need not what they want.”

“In my world, your world was a game. Most people don’t think that the characters are real.”

“But you did?”

The woman looked embarrassed. “Not at first, until I… well, _died,_ would be the best word, I suppose.”

“You’re not dead,” said Virla, flatly disbelieving.

“Not entirely, no. But I can’t go back to my world nonetheless.”

“The paper that you gave me burst into flames when I brought it through the mirror.”

“Yes, the mirror had a firewall attached. I’d thought as much. I erased the immediate records, lay low for a while, then found another way to get to you. The horsemen are persistent when they’re hunting you.”

Caritas had gone over to her desk, lifting up a dragon statuette. “These are lovely. Do you mind if I sleep in this room for a while? It’s safer, more familiar than anywhere else in Thedas would be. I think that I might pass for a spirit here, among your memories, and I’m not a mage, so I should be safe from demons.”

“The demons tend to flock to me, regardless. What about the horsemen that you mentioned?”

“Four of them. Conquest and war, famine and death. Perhaps like your Forgotten Ones, but riding in on horses red and white and black and pale. Pale or green, in case it matters. The original word is _khloros_ , the root of chlorophyll, which allows green plants to take in energy from light. Similar to veridium and _viridis_.”

 _Would a demon know those words?_ Virla took the part that made most sense. “Are they hunting you?”

“They would be, if I hadn’t hidden here. I was working undercover, trying to learn about the Blight, pretending to be a… slave. I think I’m as powerful as each of them, but can’t take on them all at once. In my world their arrival heralded the destruction of the world before it was re-made with an Eternal City.”

“Please stay,” said Virla, suddenly, surprising herself at how genuinely she wanted to offer this. “If you want to help me defeat the Blight, you’re welcome. I need to understand what’s going on.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” sighed Caritas. “And as long as you still want him, Solas is yours. I only ever wanted for him to be yours, in your world. Don’t blame him for his desperation… millennia of death and guilt must do strange things to a mind, especially when you’re always choosing memories to keep.”

Virla nodded. _They are not gone as long as you remember them. But you could let them go. / I know._

It was a comfort to imagine those words echoing in Caritas’ head, just as they did in hers. She woke up smiling at the dawn. For the first time in a long, long while, she didn’t feel alone.

****

By the time that Virla received the summons to Divine Victoria’s Exalted Council, she’d expected it for months. Arl Teagan was determined to prove credentials to Ferelden and Anora, by forcing the Inquisition to disband… or at least to move their soldiers out of Caer Bronach. Virla rode with Josephine and Cullen to Halamshiral, and smiled through all the pageantry that followed at the Winter Palace. With Gaspard out of the picture, and Briala hampered, Celene aimed to cut the Inquisition’s power. She was fielding Duke Cyril de Montfort, a close ally, to persuade them into a more ceremonial role linked to the Chantry. He’d grumble about her decision to exile the Wardens, an angle that would gain public opinion to his side.

Caritas went elsewhere in the Fade. They’d made a code to call for contact, based on words from Hard in Hightown, a book you could find anywhere, and often did.

****

The politics were exactly what they had predicted. Virla sat with Josephine through depositions, summaries of deeds she’d done, or not done, of the Inquisition’s failings and achievements. There was plenty of time between the acts to think about her friends – so good to see them all! – and what had happened in the last two years. And even to see an opera where a woman played the king in yellow. It was good to see Josie relaxing, but she had found it golden-blinding, glittering and loud and strange.

Or the last two days… while they’d been here, Dorian had received the news that his father had been assassinated. She tried to dissuade him from revenge: this world didn’t need more vengeance. She wondered what it might have reminded Solas of: would he still have compared Dorian to Falon’Din, his father to Elgar’nan? Surely not. When she’d met Magister Halward Pavus he’d been polite and proud, nothing like the All-Father of Dalish tales. And yet, and yet… if Elgar’nan had been the Titan, slain, perhaps this was yet one more Fade-reflection too. As another poor Fereldan villager took the stand, she was conscious of the new sending crystal in her pouch, a gift from Dorian. All this power and wealth, what did it avail the poor? Leliana was right: the people feared her influence, now that the rifts were closed. _Easier on the heart to just see gilding, and not the hands rubbed raw to polish it._

That thought led to Sera, and her intuition that the Inquisition’s time (and perhaps the world) was ending. She’d offered protection from Red Jenny. Varric gave her the Key to the City, or at least the harbour, made her a Comtesse and reminded her of deals he’d made with Wycome and Deshanna to consolidate their power. De Montfort expressed his wish not to see the Inquisition carved into pieces for the chessboard. There were chess sets everywhere around, taunting her with memories of the games and Games.

And then it all turned on its head. An armoured Qunari warrior slain, bleeding on the spotless, gleaming tiles. Most wounds from magic, some from a blade. A member of the Antaam… how did he get _here_?

An Inquisition guard found the body, sent private messages to both Inquisitor and Divine. Leliana called a recess, kept it as quiet as she could. Virla fetched Bull and Dorian and Cole, the ones who might best help to shed some light upon this mystery. They tracked the blood to an eluvian, an _active_ one…

So had Briala got the password back again, or was this one controlled by someone else?

Virla took a deep breath – she could sense that it led to the Crossroads – and stepped through.

When had she last been in the Crossroads? Just after that final, second kiss from Solas, hurting, hunting, the short and painful walk back home to Skyhold. On her own.

It was cruel that it still looked so beautiful. _I’d forgotten all the colours._

The vivid crimson trees, the rainbow sky, the waterfalls and glowing rocks and crisp clean air. The blood-trail led a few steps down to a dark-red, _closed_ , eluvian. No way through.

She climbed back up to where her companions waited, breathing heavily. It was sad that they could not share in this place’s beauty – Michel de Chevin had explained how grey and strange it felt to non-elf folk.

“Judging by the bloodstains, he tried to get through there. That mirror doesn’t look broken, but it’s inactive. Maybe there’s a way to unlock it.”

Virla looked across another path of stone that yawned over the endless chasm underneath. The blood trail led back this way too. They followed it to another eluvian, beside a huge bronze statue that looked elven. Old. With curving wings and a sunrise for a head, seven-pointed. The base was made of stone.

“Right. Let’s see where this guy came from,” muttered Bull, as Virla stepped through. _It’s personal, right?_

“Elven ruins. I’m not sure we’re even in Orlais any more,” said Virla, as they found another Qunari foot soldier, a _karashok,_ same squad, said Bull. He pushed his way through rubble, pointed at another mirror.

Virla inspected it. “The place behind this one feels similar to here, shall we try this way?”

She stepped through it, and stopped. Violet flame, like Urthemiel’s. A broken silver orb. An elven tower. The moon. And smoke.

Could he be here?

  
  



	38. Blue vitriol blitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I start the painful process of condensing my 26 pages of notes on the Trespasser DLC into a coherent three-chapter narrative. (Blitz chess was never my forte. I think I will need five.)

Virla cast her barrier, ventured through the violet flames, ran up some steps, only to find the bridge across to the smoking tower was broken. Atop the tower stood a spherical gilded metal tree, above a mural of the warrior and a mosaic hard to make out through the smoke. There were purple spirit warriors standing guard, next to an eluvian. Might they aid her if she found a way to get to them? Virla braved the flames again and urged her companions back through the mirror, past the Qunari’s corpse and up the stairs.

As they emerged a flash of green exploded from the tower opposite, across a verdant valley. It looked just like the tower they had been at, barely a minute past. Odd. Virla looked back up at theirs: an owl, mosaics of Dirthamen, vine-covered _._ And just ahead were four Qunari turned to stone, literally petrified to death.

The Inquisitor looked down at the ground. “Scorch marks everywhere. This is the work of a mage.”

“A powerful one,” warned Dorian. “I can still feel the heat crackling.”

“We need to find out why the Qunari were here _and_ who did this to them.”

The lingering magic from the scorch marks felt familiar, and it worried her. She stepped through a mirror and out on to another broken bridge, adorned with wolves and plain white banners. They were on the island in the centre of the valley. A temple lay ahead, still whole not ruined, in the same green valley. Qunari fighting spirit warriors there, and crows against a pale blue sky above. The vine-covered tower to her right, the smoking tower to her left, and another eluvian on her left would access it. _So many mirrors._

The spirit champion on the other side, crackling energy, hefted a large two-handed spirit mace upon its shoulders. It welcomed them in the name of Fen’Harel. “ _Atish’all vallem, Fen’Harel elathadra. _”__

No-one else spoke Elvish. Dorian looked stunned. “The elves bound a spirit here? It feels… old. Very old.”

It wanted a password to prove that they had come to help, but she hadn’t got one. Despite her pleas in flawless Elvish, the spirits still attacked. The Inquisitor clenched her fists. If Solas had led her here, surely he could have found a way to leave a password with her. Perhaps he had no hand in this at all. _Perhaps._

“I think that spirit considered us intruders,” grumbled Virla, as its energies returned to the Fade.

“We _are_ intruders. We aren’t ancient elves,” said Cole, far too reasonably. _Don’t remind me._

She ran round the tower, finding more violet-blue flames, more dead Qunari, letters written in Common and Qunlat. And the mosaic: a wolf’s head laid above a tree. Close up, it didn’t feel quite real, the centre of the tree aglow with veilfire. What if she used the mark on it, the way she’d read the runes?

Her frustration at the spirits’ deaths subsided slightly when her guess proved right. She smiled as the veilfire indicated welcome. Past images flashed by, of cared-for slaves. _In this place, you are free._

Bull grinned as the mirage of the mosaic vanished, revealing an eluvian. “Sure are glad to have you, Boss.”

“That was like veilfire,” explained the Inquisitor, flexing her now-aching hand, and wondering whether this would prove a chance to tell something of the truth. “It claimed… this was a refuge for elven slaves.”

“Yes,” said Cole. “I can feel their pain. They came here hurt, hungry. This was help, a new home.”

“This whole valley was a sanctuary, “created by the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel”. This… doesn’t make sense. In Dalish legends, Fen’Harel is our god of misfortune.” _And I’m his only hope, or so he said._

The revealed eluvian led on to a third tower, silent in the sunlight, adorned with war and dragon frescos. They followed a spirit fleeing past more dead Qunari, killed by surprise… and recently, their blood not dry. It vanished near another wolf mirage-mosaic, below a red-edged figure in black. Andruil in the armour of the void, or someone else? This time the wolf’s head lay above a group of figures: one wolf, four elves, five spears raised. Five children of Mythal and Elgar’nan, with one a wolf? Or just coincidence? The veilfire showed a man in wolfskin standing with a group of freed slaves, arms clasped in friendship. _Fen’Harel has been falsely named a god, but is as mortal as any of you. Let none be beholden except by choice._

“Kinda curious that this guy had to specify he _wasn’t_ a god,” said Bull, when she repeated what it said.

“Worship makes you more,” said Cole. “He just wanted to help.”

Dorian smirked. “Fen’Harel sounds like quite the rebel. The “old elven gods” must have simply loved that.”

Virla nodded, remembering _ar lasa mala revas_ , wondering when and how these mirages were created. It seemed almost like a trail laid out for her, and only her, to follow. Steps led down, down past frescos of trooping elven slaves beneath the yellow sun, hearts and minds gouged out with red – blood magic, she presumed. At the bottom hung a third veilfire mirage, a wolf above an egg, an orb with pale blue teardrops and peacock feathers. _Pavus_ meant peacock, a sign of vanity, or pride, had said Caritas. But Dorian seemed just as perplexed as her. Perhaps the blue drops represented lyrium. Hard to tell.

She gritted her teeth and began to cast out magic from the Anchor. The pain was swept aside by bitter fury, images of elven mages making tens of thousands slaves and proclaiming themselves to be gods.

“This claims the elven “gods” were just “Evanuris” – powerful but completely mortal mages.”

“Whoever ran this place was trying to rebuild the slaves’ confidence. Get rid of old propaganda,” said Bull.

“If that’s true, Fen’Harel was teaching these freed slaves the truth about these “false gods”,” replied Virla, carefully, walking forward through the archway that had been blocked by the mirage. A spherical tree hung suspended from the ceiling in the darkened room beyond, crackling with Fade-green energy. As she approached, the Anchor sucked all the energy from the tree, causing her to cry out in pain.

“You all right, Boss?” asked Bull, his voice close and concerned in the sudden dark.

“It felt like the Anchor stung me,” said Virla, her focus clarifying. _It’s telling me something new._

Virla flexed her hand, reversing how the sting had felt, and lit the room in green. Glancing back at Bull she gasped to see his eyes lit green. Now what did that remind her of? _Sophiyel, kneeling in Enavuris._ All four of them were lit from the inside, protective magic pulsing. A good job Sera wasn’t here to be scaaaared.

A gift from Solas. _May the Light lead you safely through the paths of this world, and the next…_

In front of her was a statue of a wolf, scale models of the towers they had seen around the valley, and six stone archers. Was the statue a key for that pedestal she’d seen, up by the bridge leading to the island? She reached out to take it. The archer statues dissolved into black smoke, then condensed again into spirit shadows, bound as the ones above were bound. Gouging, stabbing. _And just as vulnerable to lightning._

 _So am I fighting Fen’Harel’s guardians with Fen’Harel’s magic?_ Virla asked herself, wondering if trying to second-guess her clever lover would be worth the trouble. He always seemed to be two steps ahead.

“I don’t like it here,” said Cole, as they ran back up the stairs, and past the Qunari warrior corpses.

_Well, that makes two of us, _thought Virla. Being attacked by spirits and Qunari certainly contrasted with the slow dull suffocation of the Exalted Council, but they weren’t the foes that troubled her. She thought of Solas’ rage about Sophiyel’s captors; the fierce revenge that burned within his soul; his hatred of the Qun; the cruel shards within his eyes once he’d killed Flemeth. _The fiercest battlegrounds lie within.___

****

They needed to scout around the temple, get a sense of how many Qunari might be garrisoned within. Virla led them round the lakeside, through long grass, stripweed and orange flowers. Were those… halla?

“I like the quiet. This was a good place for spirits,” whispered Cole.

“You’ve been gone a long time, kid,” said Bull, keeping his bass voice muted. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Helping people. Towns burned, too many dead from bandits or battles. It’s harder now that they can see me, but harder doesn’t mean you don’t do it.”

Virla stopped to gather prophet’s laurel, the scent as always reminding her of Solas. His elegant hands, collecting, laying out and pressing. Unmarked by age, untorn by the branding of an orb, entirely known and unknown by her. _Helping people. Not even the Creators… the Evanuris… stopped you, did they?_

Dead Qunari by the lake and felandaris. Paper, charred around the edges: _…struck the tower, a great lightning bolt out of a blue sky. Afterward, spirits emerged from the statue of a wolf, as if the lightning woke them, and they appeared to be looking for someone. The only word I understood was “Fen’Harel”._

She crumpled up the page in silence, hid it in her pouch. They climbed back to the temple wall where it rose in massive grandeur from the island. A halla nibbled at the flowers, golden-flanked, brown-horned…

“That’s Hanal’ghilan again,” she breathed, and ran to follow it. The golden halla stopped above a cliff-face. Peering over she could see a blocked-up cave with silver barrels – _gaatlok_ , said Bull – left beside them.

Bull shook his horns and grimaced. “We don’t have any primers. Need primers to blow up gaatlok.”

It seemed there was no way inside except through the guarded temple door. Virla listened to the sounds of fighting. Not too many Qunari stationed here; perhaps the rest had fled from the defending spirits’ wrath, or lay in wait beyond. They ran inside and joined the fray, Bull calling the Ben-Hassrath agents’ weaknesses to Cole. When the spirits died, they briefly flickered into true colour, reminding her once more of Sophiyel and her death. Once she might have whispered prayers to Falon’Din, but now…

This sanctuary was beautiful, and made Virla think how magnificent the Inquisition’s Suledin Keep might once have been. High green vaulted ceilings, sculpted windows open to the air, pink vines in bloom around a golden tree, wolves howling. Towards the farther end there was a statue of a wolf, like those that watched the Emerald Graves. On either side were blackened mosaics: Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Fen’Harel, Mythal, Dirthamen again. _No Elgar’nan_. _So was he truly Fen’Harel, as Elgar captured by the envy demon in that tale that Solas told? But if so, how did Cole see Fen’Harel as good? Or in two places?_

_Venavis, Virlath. Dirth ma, Ghil-dirthalen. Don’t let the past distract you from the threat in front of you._

“Why did those Qunari attack “the Inquisition” on sight?” asked the Inquisitor, heading towards the wolf.

Bull looked back at the bodies. “No idea. They weren’t Tal-Vashoth, though. This might be a rogue group, but they _think_ they’re following the Qun.”

“The Dread Wolf keeps its gaze on the one light that illumines the way forward,” said Dorian, pointing at an inscription. Virla wondered if the use of _it_ was confirmation that the Wolf was spirit, not a man or woman, and why it was in Common. The twin murals curving around the wolf were ambiguous, showing a person (male or female) with a black wolf’s mask obscuring almost all their face, and removing – or attaching? – trails of blue to elven faces, by an orb in Fade-blue waters, empowering or empowered by it.

“That’s Fen’Harel – removing Dalish _vallaslin_?” mused Virla. “Solas said they were used to mark slaves.”

But if it showed removal, why did the elves without _vallaslin_ look sad, and those with it look happy?

Whilst she gently touched the paint in solemn, pained, reflection, Dorian had solved the puzzle, lighting a brazier with veilfire where the large wolf statue’s head was pointed, and pushing at a button. Virla jumped and turned round at the sound of grating stone, statue sliding to reveal a hidden exit, green eyes glowing.

A box by its paws unlocked to yield a magic bow. It whispered of Arrowwood, the archer from a Ciriane tale, who traded his heart to the spirit of an oak grove and shot the sun from the sky, turning day to night.

And in her mind the constant singing: _The People swore their lives to Falon’Din, who mastered the dark that lies, whose shadows hunger, whose faithful sing, whose wings of death surround him thick as night._

And in her ears his words to Flemeth: _I should pay the price, but the People need me._

“We need you, Boss,” said Bull, pointing to the mirage that blocked the stairs. This mosaic wolf had flippers like the sunrise statue at the entrance in the Crossroads, its head above an orb which sat in turn above an elven head split in two halves by a winding path that led down from the orb. The left half had blue _vallaslin_ , the right half none. A metaphor for past and future, a map to Fen’Harel himself? The veilfire conveyed a sense of determination. Freed slaves strode in ranks, minus _vallaslin_ and armed.

“Hidden weapons,” said Virla, as she moved into the armoury behind it. “These freed slaves actually fought back against the Evanuris posing as gods.”

“Interesting word, “Evanuris”,” said Dorian. “If all it means is basically “mage leader”, well. They were basically magisters.”

They passed below old banners that reminded Virla of those in Skyhold when they first arrived, pale and faded yellow with a three-armed sigil; passed a vault of gold within which gleamed a gilded chalice; ran into the rest of the Qunari cell, in front of a new eluvian. Had Solas barred them in here using the mirages?

Assassins, shock troopers, spearmen… a tough fight, but yielding Virla sight of the Qunari’s orders.

“This letter says that the Qunari came to these ruins because the eluvians connect to Halamshiral.”

“So they’re coming for the Winter Palace,” said Bull, testing the heft of the largest trooper’s greataxe.

“It was some sort of infiltration. There’s no more details.”

Bull dropped the greataxe with a clang, and groaned. “This is crazy. They’re acting like we’re at war!”

“Are they?” asked Virla, sharply. _And if so how could southern Thedas possibly prevent them?_

“I don’t know, Boss,” sighed the ex-Qunari. “I wish I did.”

The Inquisitor looked around the armoury. Barrels waiting full of _gaatlok_ , to be used upon the Winter Palace? _Fenedhis,_ gods forbid. In a side room they found a gore-splattered letter, written in Common and Qunlat again. Were they using viddathari to make it easier to infiltrate? Was it conceivable that Solas had been one of… no. She read the letter: _two hours ago, an unknown intruder infiltrated our defences. Masked and cloaked. A mage. Used magic to awaken spirits and turned them against us. Intruder moved as if knew this place. Fled after spirits awoke. Dozens dead. Spirits keep attacking. Engagement not reco…_

She wiped the blood off her fingers, now quite sure. The Qunari… and a mystery agent determined to stop them. And whether he was called Fen’Harel or Solas, her lover would never side with the Qunari.

_Two hours ago. Two hours, two hours…_

_Two years._

  



	39. Lazurite bluebird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name _lazurite_ is from the Persian _lazward_ for blue. Boris Spassky beat fellow Soviet David Bronstein in 1960 in the [Blue Bird Game](http://www.mark-weeks.com/aboutcom/aa08b09.htm). Starting with the King’s Gambit, Spassky plunged into “the whirlpool of complications” with a double sacrifice: a “blue bird soaring in the clouds, the brilliancy prize”, as his opponent put it. Bluebirds can symbolise joy, the rising sun, spiritual awakening, hope… loss of naivety.

Virla left the briefing chamber with fear and hope competing in her heart, grateful for Leliana’s support. _The Qunari must be our top priority. We can deal with the politics later… Qunari. Solas. Qunari. Solas._

“Her name is different now. Victoria. The old name slips away, further each time. She’s glad you’re here,” said Cole, keeping in step with her along the corridors, out into the Winter Palace garden. He lowered his voice. “Your hand hurts. A heartbeat, not yours, hammering the beat of a song in its final verse. I’m sorry.”

Her maelstrom of emotions must be helping him attune to the pain. “Its final verse? Who’s sorry?”

They sat down by the Gilded Horn, spoke softly under cover of Maryden’s singing – _dragons in the sky, shadow versus light_ … Cole closed his eyes as words poured out, from memories not hers but touching.

“They made bodies from the earth, and the earth was afraid. It fought back, but they made it forget. It always had a soul. The question is the answer. The guardian spirits stayed, not bound, but biding, because he asked. He knows how to speak so spirits listen. He broke the dreams to stop the old dreams from waking. The wolf chews its leg off to escape the trap. He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face. Bare faced but free, frolicking, fighting, fierce. He wants to give wisdom, not orders. She killed the girl to save herself. She thinks about the eyes going black. A weapon is an order, not a gift.”

Virla clenched the Anchor in her hand, trying to remember Solas’ face without dark shadows in his eyes.

“He died in the darkness so a blue rose could bloom. His friend had to die, because he thought they were people. A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf’s jaws. The spirits have fled, flying, fluttering, fast to the farthest Fade. They’re afraid of the Veil tearing again.”

“Thank you, Cole,” said Virla, quietly, when it became clear that he had reached the end. So Felassan – his friend _Slow Arrow –_ was indeed dead as the runes underneath The Sealing of the Breach implied. Had Fen’Harel truly killed his friend or simply mourned his death when he feasted on his soul in dreams? Whatever had happened, she was glad Briala wasn’t in Halamshiral this time, and that she did have Cole.

Cole nodded. “Being this, being me… it’s harder, but better. I like me. Maryden laughs at things I say.”

****

Snatches of Maryden’s songs followed the Inquisitor around the Palace grounds as she quickly briefed her allies. She sang of the Inquisitor and to her companions, even Solas. That might explain why Blackwall – Rainier – asked her if she’d heard from him. _Don’t ask, please. It still hurts._ He didn’t get flowers any more for Josephine: _we both knew it was just a momentary infatuation._ Alas for that reflected June and Sylaise. She noted he’d reclaimed his name and with it his connections to the past, his family. _He can mend it now._

She asked Varric about Hawke, learned Carta reports said Weisshaupt was in chaos. _I’m not entirely sure how it’ll all play out, but my money’s on Hawke walking away from the Wardens’ fortress as it explodes._

Dorian told her it felt like ten years since he’d seen her, rather than two. He’d been home twice, his father only there once, his mother drunk both times. He’d gone to Qarinus to see his friend Maevaris Tilani and sort out Alexius’ affairs. Maevaris had set up their new Lucerni party, aiming to be a progressive force for change. Tevinter wanted the Inquisition to fall apart; hoped other nations would do their part for them.

Cullen had asked the Inquisition’s honour guard to secure the eluvian and stay alert. It would take them a short while to arrange removal, which gave time to scout around and buy some dog treats for the mabari he’d adopted: another wolf companion for a knight? It thanked her by digging up a mace, the cudgel of the gold-and-ebon queen, swarming with giant, fade-touched, bees. She smiled and took it to show Sera.

Sera thought everyone was acting weird, particularly the elfy servants: too content. _Servants coming and going, Briala to avoid..._ A caprice coin in her pocket, with the lion and the Chantry sun. Hidden halla.

Memories of dancing… _Focus on what’s real._ “So, the nobles are nice, and the servants are happy?”

“Two things that have never been true. Mark that I said it, we’re fighting Qunari, but something else is on the up,” said Sera, kicking her legs out as she perched on top of a table. “Leliana’s friendly when she wants to be. My people sometimes do things for her, like they do for you. And all for Andraste, I suppose. It still sings right, but the way people used to go on about it, I thought there’d be more trumpets.”

_Dragons in the sky, the fighting has begun: shadow versus light, and who will stand when it is done?_

Virla took a stool to sit by Sera – _why trumpets?_ – and told her about the elven ruin and the Evanuris.

Sera made a fist and punched it at the table. “They’re not even demons. Just big magey nobs punching down. And, yes, the shits who used them to make me feel broken can still eat it. But… always waiting for that fight is way too much work. Like doing half the hurt for them. Maybe we’re old now, but I’m tired of it. I’d rather worry about people I care about. Like you. Are you all right with it? The… Creators?”

“I’ll make sense of it eventually,” said Virla, hoping that were true, and staring at the bear and nug and wolf’s heads stuffed and mounted in a row. _Left and right hands of the Divine? I’m going crazy._

“Good that someone’s trying. Better that it’s you, because you can do it.”

Maryden sang on. _Mercy for the elves, who guard their lives with faith, who wander through the night. Dalish father roams, will the Dalish son survive the fight? When the slightest unite, then a giant will rise._

The song ended, and Virla got up to talk to Bull and grab a bite to eat with him and Krem. Sera caught her arm. “Oh, and… Inquisitor? Feels weird, but I’m sorry Solas never came back. Well, no, I’m not but… I’m sorry that he left _you._ For what it’s worth, anyway. Not much, I suppose, but there you go.”

****

 _Tiny details matter… the spies, servants... Sera is not wrong,_ thought Virla, as she prepared to step through the eluvian again, now moved and guarded on the Palace side by her soldiers. She wondered whether Fen’Harel had turned any of Briala’s agents and if the Harlequins that vanished into violet fire were his. Charter intercepted her, handing her reports, a top hat, a singing staff. There’d been a halla trail of maps that started from a skeleton just through the eluvian, all but submerged in rock beside its sitting twin. Charter had tracked the halla trail around the grounds to where it yielded the secret cache.

The eluvian’s surface glimmered blue for yes, not red for no, then white as she passed through. Ahead a new path grew across the chasm, Qunari running. She took a necessary moment to place the top hat on the head of the sitting skeleton and smiled as their twin spirits blessed her with their cunning. _Dirth ma, Falon’Din. Ma serannas._ Then the chase was on.

****

The mirror that the Qunari went through led deep under the earth to a cave that felt as if the dwarves and elves could not decide who owned it. Turquoise lyrium crystals hung from basalt ceilings tiled in emerald, looming over golden wolves. A massive statue of Mythal stood guard like Heidrun in his ancient thaig.

It was bizarre, and so was fighting Qunari underground. The first group they fought taunted her as an agent of Fen’Harel. She moved on fast, not wanting to discuss it now. The Qunari’s calculations had been torn with sharp teeth; were covered with a film of blood and dust from a cave-in they’d been excavating.

“Songs screaming far away. It wants to wake up but can’t remember how. No-one should be here,” said Cole, as they rounded the corner and saw the immense scale of the Qunari mining operation. Virla scarcely took it in – they were but mortals, she could deal with them. _Soft, not stone._

_It must be him. It **must** be him. I never saw him as a wolf. Caritas said Morrigan could take that form, and surely, **surely** , Fen’Harel can take that form. Oh, **vhenan** , where are you, do you know I’m close at hand? In the fog you sang me home: tel’enfenim, da’len, ma garas mir renan. Fen’Harel’enaste, lead me on._

Heart pounding, mind racing, she glimpsed an eluvian blocked by fallen masonry. Was that what the Qunari sought? Barrels of gaatlok lay temptingly nearby, but they still lacked the primers to explode them.

What else? A steel statue with a down-turned crescent and flipper-wings; a Dalish convert’s notes. _Protector and All-Mother, why are you honoured here? And why was the Dread Wolf at your side?_ The architecture was dwarven but the statues were elven. Virla was reminded of the thaig above the sands.

“It’s singing, but no-one can hear,” said Cole, as they cut and thrust through deepstalkers with bright blue eyes, reminiscent this time of the Sha-Brytol. Elves and nugs and fennecs, dwarves and deepstalkers.

They found an ex-Templar, Jerran, a human convert. Left as bait or genuinely trying to defect? He begged her to stop the Viddasala – _a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath specialising in finding, studying and stopping magic,_ translated Bull _._ The title meant “one who converts purpose”, Virla recalled from Charter’s briefing.

Jerran said agents of Fen’Harel had been sabotaging Qunari operations all over the Crossroads. He’d no specific reason for their belief the Inquisition were the Dread Wolf’s army, except _the Viddasala said it_ , and _you’re Dalish_. He said the Viddasala’s plan was to invade the south.

The plan had codename Dragon’s Breath and involved feeding their Saarebas with lyrium. Virla thought of runes that lay beneath the temple fresco: _of dwarven ruins and **the dragon’s breath** ; even the salty taste of death could be perfected._ Coincidence, was his network active then, or could he perceive the future?

“That’s a load of crap,” growled Bull. “There’s no way the Viddasala would let any Saarebas within a thousand feet of lyrium.”

This place was close to a lyrium spring, so Jerran said, where mining caused it to grow faster. None but dwarves could mine lyrium directly, so the Qunari were using explosives. Jerran suggested blowing the whole place up. _You’ve got to find the Viddasala to end this war before it begins._

****

Bull confirmed he was fine to fight the Viddasala’s people, reminded Dorian _he’d_ fought the Venatori, but the Tevinter mage remained on edge. “Dwarven buildings are lit by molten rock. That doesn’t just go out.”

A charred note lay beside a patch of violet flame, a warning to fellow Qunari that it was left by an agent of Fen’Harel. _Or the man himself._ Virla lit the Anchor to protect her through it. Dorian breathed a shaky sigh.

“I’ve lived with the Qunari threat all my life. If it escalates, it won’t just be Tevinter fighting them.”

Bull shook his horns. “There’s got to be a mistake, Boss. The Qunari wouldn’t invade now. It’s impossible.”

“All this lyrium,” said Dorian, as they explored further. “If the Qunari wanted, they could make a fortune.”

Cole closed his eyes to listen, feel into the Fade, put his hand on Dorian’s arm as he explained. “The stone sings. The song scares them. It’s the wrong song, the wrong blood. They don’t know how we stand it.”

“If we can convince them to stop murdering us for just a few years, I’m open to a cultural exchange.”

Virla looked across the chasm to where a waterfall cascaded over Mythal’s massive shoulder, and shivered at the fires and barrels of gaatlok around the mining platforms. “This cavern is barely holding together.”

A female voice whispered in the dark. _Come closer… there’s so much you don’t see._

It was “only” a Ben-Hassrath assassin. But for a heart-stopping moment Virla thought she’d heard Mythal.

****

The primers were guarded by elite spearmen and a Saarebas. His face encased in an iron mask even unto death, Virla felt both pity and intense repulsion. After all they’d done to free the mages from the Circles…

She picked up the Saarebas’ staff, a Heart of Rage, warm to the touch and emanating energy from the Fade. Nothing nearby felt real; her ears filled with the sound of a furiously beating heart.

“They’re all singing,” said Cole, and she followed his gaze down into a crypt, with careful rows of elven tombs. “Coffers, coffins, corpses that aren’t dead. A song crying out in the dark.”

More trapped mages, then, or spirits, ancient elves asleep? Too far to jump down. They had no time. No time to bring Colette here, or Bram Kenric. And she was going to set the place on fire, drown it in water.

Did she believe there was a Qunari invasion planned? For if not then surely sabotage would spark one.

 _What would Solas do?_ She slipped the Ring of Doubt on to get past the Qunari without being seen, set the primers, ran back to alight it with a heart of rage unbound. Cracks became crevices, crevices became crevasses, rocks and water coursing, crashing, flooding as they climbed and clambered up.

“So, who gets to tell Cullen and Josephine we’re probably at war with the Qun? Anyone?”

“Don’t look at me!” said Bull, dodging a fall of ceiling tiles with surprising agility for his size.

Virla made it to the mirror, took one last look at Mythal, winged and huge and blind. _Stone, not soft._ From one dead warrior in the Winter Palace to a full-scale invasion no-one in the south had planned for. Yet.

She sighed. “They’re going to kill me.”

****

“I still do not understand why they accused the Inquisition of serving Fen’Harel,” said Leliana, stiffly.

 _She suspects me._ The Inquisitor kept her hands behind her back, and met Leliana’s gaze at last. “We know that Mythal actually exists. It’s possible that Fen’Harel is still here in some form too.”

“Certainly what you saw in the ruins implies that the Dread Wolf of elven legend is a real person.”

Whatever Virla might have said in response – _should I find a way to talk with Leliana privately, confess what I know?_ – was lost as Arl Teagan stormed down the steps and into their briefing room, followed by Duke Cyril, frigidly polite in contrast. Apparently her Inquisition guards were attacking Orlesian servants.

“Secrets and lies,” snarled Teagan. “Do you understand why we fear your Inquisition? You act as if you’re the solution to every problem. How long before you drag us into another war?”

_Oh darling, I just did._

****

The elven Inquisition guard was the same woman that had found the first Qunari corpse. The Orlesian servant claimed the gaatlok barrel he’d brought was simply wine for the guests. She arrested the servant, obviously, and let the guard give her the note in Qunlat that the viddathari spy had dropped.

“Smile, Inquisitor. There are many eyes upon us.” Leliana was at her back, her face deceptively calm.

“How are you still smiling?” asked Virla, turning to face the Divine, and judgement. But Leliana chose not to pursue her previous line of questioning about Fen’Harel, instead answering the actual question asked.

“Years of training as a bard, Inquisitor. We cannot show weakness now. Enemies could be watching. All we can let them see is idle conversation between two friends.”

The Inquisitor handed over the note. “An attack as swift and unstoppable as the breath of a dragon,” concluded the Divine, translating the Qunlat, explaining that the note showed where to place gaatlok in the Palace. It was an aptly timed reminder of just how smart Leliana was, and Virla filed that thought away. “When duty has been performed, report to the Viddasala by the mirror marked by a bookcase.”

Virla forced her painfully dry lips into a smile, over teeth that suddenly felt too long and sharp. “I’ve been hoping to meet the esteemed Viddasala. How nice of her to invite us over.”

  
  



	40. The Moonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is chess which is being played; and in the best of all the stories, the one which will live for years, The Moonstone, the pretence that it is anything else is openly discarded.” – M. W. Townsend, Spectator, 1889
> 
> “Books always speak of other books… every story tells a story that has already been told.” – Umberto Eco

Barrels of gaatlok in every wing of the Palace, placed and timed to cause maximum casualties from falling masonry. The Inquisitor looked again for Bull, and found him in the Gilded Horn with Sera.

She took a seat, and some ale. “What can you tell me about the Qunari we’re dealing with?”

“These aren’t Ben-Hassrath. They’re specialists working for a Viddasala. Ben-Hassrath handle normal security. The Viddasala’s people focus entirely on magic. They find it, they study it, they neutralize it. And they must be desperate if they’re using eluvians. I’d expect them to shatter any mirror they find.”

“Qunari first. Mix with elves. Add dwarves. Ugh, doesn’t anyone drink their booze one at a time anymore?” said Sera, reminding Virla of Warden ritewine bottles. “And the elves here are still squirrelly.”

****

Sera had agreed to keep an eye on them while Virla sought the Viddasala. Josephine had confirmed that the Exalted Council was still deadlocked, and Leliana had made chance for a quiet word before she left.

Her face was still a mask. “We must stay true to ourselves, Inquisitor, whether we fight, or lay down arms. As long as we serve the people, rather than our own agenda, we’ll be on the right path.”

Back in the Crossroads, finding the right path wasn’t quite so simple. _The mirror marked by a bookcase…_

The one in front was still inactive, dully red. Virla had hopes for one that lay hidden to the side of Mythal’s statue and which led into an Orlesian chateau library, but all it revealed were arcane horrors, a letter proving that the mirror had once been in an elven ruin near Vol Dorma, and a novel Dorian pocketed, _Moonlight on the Feast of Shadows_ , a winged horse with a horn and an enormous rainbow on its cover.

“This goes everywhere,” said Cole. “Even places that aren’t anymore.”

Demons dead, she opened up a chest and pulled out a ring, whispering _the hand that cuts_. On her hand it grew warm and started pulsing slightly, as quick as her heartbeat: Is this my final verse as well? Neatly written papers also lay within the chest, shimmering slightly and talking of improper valences on bindings.

But no Viddasala here, nor was she through the mirror at the back of the Deep Roads floating island. _Servants’ entrances,_ thought Virla. That one led to a Dalish shrine, with a model aravel and a giant hart in stone. Someone had left an offering of cheese, beside a chest that matched the one in the library. This time they were prepared for the demons – spirits who had once protected precious treasures? Rage and despair overcome, she found an amulet in the chest, _the eye that weeps,_ clammy and glowering red.

Dorian took the notes again, and read them out. “Elegance eludes me. The aim is to improve the coordination of the body and sharpen the perception of the heart, but grafts do not live long enough…”

“Nothing to do with Qunari, Boss,” said Bull, still breathing hard from the fighting. “Can we move on?”

On the island’s other side, Virla found a large vermilion stone egg, humming with power. She touched it with the Anchor, willing it to discharge. A path appeared in front of them, spanning the chasm as they ran.

“It’s old,” said Cole. “The stones remember different ways to be, and it asks them to change.”

This path led to another eluvian by a crimson tree, dappled sunlight on latticework just tangible beyond. There was no bookcase here, but Virla felt compelled to see what lay upon the other side. This time it was a Fereldan throne in a ruined castle, water dripping from the vines that stretched across the broken roof.

There were books, but mouldy and rotting. Dorian took the single piece of vellum that remained intact.

> “…saw yht cross from the Volca, that which draggeth souls down to yhts larder in the brinedark. Hys beast preyth on humblewits and goldsworn even & the tower’s keeper declares I will rest here if yht would ease me. The elvhen, which pulled me grip-up from my end, kends he is last of his kynde. I made it known elvhen live south-like, but he says yht would not be as yht was & I said that’s evertrue & he laughed lark-like. Come dark he showed me a mirror deep strange, an “eluvian” sworne to beene in his family for…”

“Anderfels and Tirashan. Beast might be a cetus. Nothing on Viddasala,” said Bull, opening the third chest.

Virla was still staring at the elven murals on the floor: the golden six-legged horse, black hart, as revenants spawned. In the chest lay a belt that wrapped itself snugly around her waist, with strange fine stitching. More notes: _An enchantment linked in tandem, as the neck turns the head or the wrist turns the hand?_

They backtracked again, and headed across a floating island marked with Dirthamen’s raven and up to a mirror beside a crouching dragon, discharging another stone egg on the way to make the path. Many skeletons lay around it, with no obvious reason for the carnage. Inside, or through, the mirror, they were in a crumbling prison: shattered eluvians; frescos of harts and beasts and roaring cetus; piles of skeletons.

There was a fourth chest, guarded by a greater terror demon. Corpses rose up from the floor as she slashed at the demon with her spirit blade. In the chest lay a suit of leather armour, perfectly preserved. She read the notes and passed them on again to Dorian, frowning slightly. _Using up the last of the stock was well worth it, as I explained to it as a courtesy… material made from lesser animals, if the need arises._ The armour (grey and maroon, one silver arm) gave off a faint, living heat. It was heavier than it looked.

“This stamp is like a stylized halla head,” said Dorian. “Can I try it on? Those colours suit me.”

Virla nodded; The Iron Bull groaned. “Always with the colours, _kadan_. Always with the colours.”

“I think that we could replicate the method if you want it in your size,” grinned Dorian. “Black, of course.”

As they stepped back into the Crossroads, Virla pointed at the wooden structures straight ahead, left of Dirthamen’s raven on his island. “I think we went right past the bookcases. So large we missed them.”

The path spiralled up to where an eluvian nestled among stacks of books, each filled with nonsense script. Bull smiled fiercely as he located notes left by Qunari agents. “Let’s get answers from the Viddasala.”

****

“Is this some sort of old elven library?” asked Virla once the others had all stepped through to join her.

“It definitely saw a massive magical backlash some time ago,” said Dorian, indicating where an enormous part of the structure hung ahead of them, entirely upside-down. Like the Crossroads, everything was floating, held in stasis by enchantments in the stone that localised and counteracted gravity.

Virla nodded. “We’re in the Fade, or something like it. Let’s hope we can find the Viddasala in all this.”

Leafing through a few of the ancient tomes left open on the desks made Virla wish that she could carry all the tomes back to Skyhold. Whatever ancient catastrophe had created islands here had left the bookcases generally intact, with mosaics of the Evanuris glimmering between, and fallen owls. The books spoke of: a million servants swarming over a collapsed mountain to create an eidolon of Elgar’nan, light radiating from its eyes and snarling mouth; the exile of the Forbidden Ones; a city of deep blue spires. A battered diary with one word – _enchantment_ – lay near an impaled Qunari and a stash of beautifully crafted runes.

“ _Andaran atish’an, mirthadra elvhen,”_ said a spirit, courteously, before switching into common. It was an archivist and explained that the Viddasala’s scholars and mages were here to study the Veil. Despite being smart enough to learn Qunlat from eavesdropping on the Qunari, it knew no more. _I am sundered from myself._ _If you find another one of me nearer the Qunari… I have not thought with myself for some time_.

It answered Virla’s query about the library. “This is the Vir Dirthara. The living knowledge of the empire. The libraries of every city. The wisdom of every court. A connecting place whose paths are in disarray.”

“What put this place into “disarray”?” asked Virla, imagining a shattered mind, a corpus of knowledge.

“It was made with world and fade. When they sundered, so did we. Paths broke. Knowledge fragmented. Many were trapped. I preserve their last words: _what happened? Where are the paths? Where are the paths? Gods save me, the floor is gone. Do not let me fall… do not let me…_ ”

“Thanks. Really paints a picture,” said Bull, looking over the edge. Dorian closed his eyes.

Virla found that here she could also sense Fen’sulevin, listening intently, and wondered if the spirit might recall some happier memories. “I could learn so much about my people. What were they like? How long is our history?”

“I will try to recall, honoured patron, but there are gaps… breaks… Greetings. Laughter. _Emma enasal._ Forms out of air. Light. Memories. Aneth ara! So many! Missing. Missing. Missing!”

“Stop. Please, stop!” said Cole, in anguish as its voice ranged higher. “You don’t need to hurt yourself!”

“Yes, I… Wisdom from compassion. Yes. I will stop.” It turned back to Virla. “Apologies. I knew all once. We knew. With the break, only fragments or knowledge new, since the fall.” _The priests of Dirthamen…_

“We’ll be going now,” said Virla, turning sadly away from the large skull the spirit emanated from.

“Know this: an unknown person, not of the Qunari, recently woke the Librarians. The Librarians facilitated learning before the fracture. Before the fall. Now, beware them. They are unwell. Wisdom guide you.”

The upside-down island was even more disconcerting in its sheer immensity, when she looked up. Qunari soldiers patrolled, like ants found underneath a stone. A waterfall flowed upwards to the sky, an inverted eluvian placed below (above?) its source. Another stone egg discharged the first part of a threefold bridge to an eluvian straight ahead, sitting on a massive golden metal hand. The mirror’s frame matched that of its inverted twin, leading to the Qunari camp. Virla began to look around for more vermilion eggs.

“Let me know if you see any more of these,” said the Inquisitor, stepping carefully across the bridge. There was nothing obvious to catch you if you fell between the stones or off the side, just an endless drop into the mist. Echoes of what happened here: _do not let me fall…_

“I can see one,” called Bull, once he’d crossed the bridge. “Down on that island with the giant wolf.”

An eluvian was perched between two ravens down some rocky steps to the left. Virla stepped through, wondering again why Kirkwall had these statues everywhere. It led to a courtyard under the inverted island, with two more eluvians ahead to left and right. _Back when I was a spirit,_ whispered Cole, _this wouldn’t have bothered me. Now it’s all wrong._ A nervous minute elapsed before Dorian emerged.

“I saw the other egg,” he explained. “It was on an island to the left below a patch of purple flame.”

So he had come here, and probably recently. Virla walked towards the sparking metal tree at the centre of the courtyard, gasping as the Anchor reacted to its magic by setting all the nerves up her arm on fire.

Dorian stepped closer to inspect it. “Did you notice? Your Anchor is flaring up near magic. Elven magic.”

She straightened up, still wincing from the pain. “It doesn’t hurt when I cast spells. What’s causing this?”

He shook his head, concern etched on his face. “I’m not sure. Tell us if it gets worse.”

The courtyard held more books: a record of the last great flowering imago; laughing lovers tangled in a knot; a duel between the gold and black champions of Elgar’nan and Falon’Din, fighting on a snow-capped mountain cap until the black knight’s throat was cut; and lessons shared by elves and spirits about the unchanging world, its delicacy and stubbornness. She thought: _indomitable focus, Virla_ , and nearly wept.

****

They took the left-hand eluvian to a broken tower with a circle of altars bearing unlit braziers. A Qunari warrior lay dead, eyes wide with terror – _scared shitless_ , muttered Bull. Up rocky steps, another archivist greeted them, dissolving into red mist while recounting more last words of those who lived past the fall.

> _How could the Dread Wolf cast a Veil between the world that wakes and the world that dreams?_
> 
> _\- The Evanuris will send people. They will save us!_
> 
> _When have you last heard from the gods? When the Veil came down, they went silent!_
> 
> _\- What is this Veil? What has Fen’Harel done?_

Virla’s eyes went wide. The Veil was colossal, complex, vast: a magical vibration that repelled the Fade. How could Solas… Fen’Harel… have cast… created… such a thing, in every living creature’s mind? How long ago had this occurred? No references in human history, just Dalish legend. _Fen’Harel’s prisons…_

“Are these “records” saying that Fen’Harel _created_ the Veil between our world and the Fade?”

“They’re saying some guy just _made_ the Veil? We must have been ass-deep in demons before then.”

“If it’s true,” said Dorian, nodding in agreement with Bull, “that means the Fade and the waking world were once one in the same.”

They passed through to the island with the purple flame. Bull shuddered. “Floating crap, magic mirror crap, evil demon crap… when this is over, I’m going to need somebody to hit me with a stick again.”

“I’m not sure whether I want that to be a metaphor or not,” said Dorian, smirking up at him.

“Next time we get the gang back together, let’s do a dragon instead. Dragons are fun.”

 _Such purity in undiluted power. You **made** the Veil? Those artefacts… _ They emerged into a large square room, or at least what still remained of it: two walls and a floor. Virla’s attention was immediately drawn to the two huge and identical murals on the walls that towered above the shards and skeletons, lit candles and papers abandoned in a hurry, technical notes on abstracted magical theory. Perhaps the Qunari had all been frightened off. A suspicion of what the awoken Librarians might really be began to dawn in Virla’s mind. Dorian recognised some formulae, but the dense annotations in Qunlat were too technical for Bull.

Bull went to look closely at the murals, his one good eye trained on the figure standing on the right, arms holding up a circle with an eightfold cross inscribed inside. “That one looks like Solas, Boss,” he said to Virla, and when she nodded, added: “With an orb. Do you think many ancient elves looked just like that?”

“How would I know? Are you sure that it’s an orb? If this represents the casting of the Veil, it might be a representation of the moon: a moonstone,” said Virla, thinking of Andraste holding up the sun, and of a man who smiled when she once answered if the Anchor had affected her… _how would I know?_ The mural showed two figures, one on the left below a yellow disc with horizontal wavy lines, the other one below a blue disc where the wavy lines were vertical; and in between lay seven sectors around a large disc that presumably represented the Fade, black-eyed peacock feathers (Pride?) surrounding a golden sun in red.

Dorian had been scouting round. He’d activated the bridge, and found another inscription. “When the Dread Wolf’s gaze is bright, light burns in a ring of the dead,” he quoted. “There’s a wolf statue up there.”

It was stone and smaller than the golden one above the other island. Virla ventured through the flames to reach it, finding on the way a journal warning of a terrible danger: a wolf with slavering black jaws and pits for eyes, the Evanuris preventing its escape. _The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the People and their spirits. He will offer advice that seems fair, but turns slowly to poison. Remember the price of treason and keep in your heart the mercy of your gods._ Truth or propaganda?

 _Vir Dirthara_ : a place of learning, decided Inquisitor Virlath. _Maybe it is helping me find what I need._

The stone wolf held another puzzle. Dorian would be smug if she needed to ask him for help, and solving it would provide a chance to escape from Bull’s all-seeing eye. There was a button by the statue’s side, which, when pressed, lit up its eyes and sent orbs of magic flaring downwards. She cast a spell to soften her landing as she jumped off the edge and two floors down to chase the magic back to the ring of altars. Virla lit a torch with veilfire just before the magic faded, then jumped as Qunari assassins ambushed her.

She was glad that Bull’s paranoia meant they’d followed her closely enough to get the upper hand again.

As the Inquisitor went back to complete the puzzle, and liberate a frost-enchanted sword, she thought how hard it was to keep her mind on the dangers of the present, when the mysteries of her vhenan’s past were all around. And yet, somehow, she didn’t feel alone in here. The sword Rime glowed with icy runes, which read: _The way is full of tests and danger. Watch with the coolness of contemplation_ _to stay safe._

****

As she passed the central courtyard tree, the Anchor pulsed with an even sharper pain, worse than she had ever known it. With an effort she managed to discharge some of its power into the space around her, knocking her to the ground and causing Bull and Dorian to leap back out of range.

“That’s really not getting better, Boss,” said Bull, as she tried to convince them that the pain had stopped _._

“The magic here wakes it,” said Cole. “Familiar, strong… ripping apart, again, all again.”

She walked over to the other eluvian, still clenching her fist – _more tests, vhenan?_ – and looked up at the spiny sunrise. If the courtyard represented Mythal, and the scholar’s retreat was Dirthamen’s, might this way lead to Falon’Din, the future not the past? Virla held the veilfire torch aloft and walked on through.

****

It proved to be more of the same, though a Fade-touched honeycomb with angry bees took her slightly by surprise. An archivist told her more last words: _I will end Fen’Harel… after he held back the sky to imprison the gods, the Dread Wolf disappeared. The cities, the pathways… without magic, they’re crumbling!_

“Do you realise what this means? What this place is? The actual history of the elves could change everything,” said Dorian, inspecting an eluvian and clearly wondering how hard it would be to build one.

“Mirrors to places, that mirror what you’ve seen in those places,” said Cole.

“Is that approval? Hard to tell with you.” Cole shrugged, uncertain, and Dorian continued: “After these past few years, it would just be good to create something magical that is also _helpful_ for a change.”

Someone else was looking out for her, whether with the coolness of contemplation or a wolf’s sharp eye, and trying to be helpful, for they’d scribbled a rune in veilfire on the ground.

It simply said _Behind you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely jumped when I found that veilfire rune, back in September. I'd been carrying the veilfire torch around just in case there was something hidden that it could illuminate... and yes, there was.
> 
> Lots of in-game dialogue again, but since it carries much of the exposition about the Veil and I'm following canon very closely, I hope you will forgive me for it. I've played it through with various parties and this one seems to click with Virla best.


	41. Silverite pins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For primers, combine NO MORE THAN ONE PART Ataashi venom with an equal amount of deathroot auxin and THREE PARTS powdered silverite." – Orders posted in the Darvaarad gaatlok factory

It had not been Solas, then, either.

Virla had spun around and watched as spiders crawled down from the ceiling. Fear and Fen’Harel were entwined so closely in her mind by now that she almost thought she saw his face in that of the fear demon that commanded them. She forced the image from her mind, casting the Aegis of the Rift and swiping at the swirling arachnid mass that swarmed around them, each spider’s body a shell like in each sector of the Veil creation mural. She remembered Corypheus calling forth terrors from the orb, and the same green magic lashing from her hand, around her arm. Pain inside from the demon’s efforts, pain crawling up her skin, pain in her heart, pain in her head where it throbbed and pulsed and pounded.

The demon dropped a simple pendant and a halla made of glass. Rage infused her. _More gifts, ‘ma lath?_ What had he said? _The People slew a Titan, and used the power to construct the Veil._

_A sanitised version suitable only for Dalish children._

_You could have told me it was **you** , vhenan_.

****

The pain was making it so bloody hard to concentrate. She’d been right about that eluvian leading to Falon’Din: to future books, or dreams of books. Unwritten chapters of Hard in Hightown; instructions on how to reach the deepest Fade (epiphany requires a mind as smooth as mirror glass, as still as stone; ten years for practice, an age for searching); on raising the Grand Sonallium: a gift from blessed Sylaise to clever June as thanks for a great favour, with disputes raging over the colour of the palace roof trim.

Virla was… getting confused on who was black and who was gold. Falon’Din in gold would match the mosaics and the owls within this library, so Elgar’nan as Night and black might fit. Although owls hunted at night as well. And why were dwarves afraid of Elgar’nan’s fire? Unless it meant veilfire, or… dragon-fire?

Virla was… getting tired from the fighting. She’d grown soft over the past two years, forgotten tricks of physical combat. Spearman. Assassins. Troopers. Demons. Back in the courtyard, four Librarians – huge fear demons – spawned out of nothing, transparent, huge, crackling green lightning. She discovered she could – with tortuous effort – discharge the Anchor repeatedly to hurt them and their summoned spiders.

Virla was… getting frustrated that she still couldn’t understand the ancient Elvish that the Librarians spoke in. _Seran viar malas shivera mellavar! Delltash! Ghilas dennar!_ This was as confusing as her nightmares, except that she had even less control here, could not casually reshape the world to suit her needs.

So when the Viddasala (with attendant Saarebas) looked down on her from a guarded vantage point, counterpart to the golden Mythal statue (with attendant wolves) towering over the Qunari soldiers, the Inquisitor bit Virla’s tongue. She must stay cool, in command, must aim for peace… The Viddasala told her that: it was time to end her magic; that the chaos in the south defied comprehension; that the Qunari had decided to assassinate the leaders of the South three whole years ago, the day they saw the Breach…

“We would kill your leaders and spare those who toil. But this agent of Fen’Harel has disrupted everything. Lives that were to be spared, lost for him.”

“Who is this agent? Why do you think they work for the Inquisition?”

The Qunari ignored her and addressed her soldiers. “Kill the Inquisitor, then follow me to the Darvaarad”.

The fight that followed made the Inquisitor grateful for the magic of the Anchor, despite her agony in using it. She knew that they would never have survived without it, outnumbered as they were. They combed the camp for anything of use, finding an eluvian keystone and more evidence of the Qunari plot.

“These are Viddasala’s papers. She brought mages here to research strengthening the Veil.”

“A way to clamp down magic? No wonder she’s here,” said Bull.

Virla quickly rifled through the sheaf. Most of it was in Qunlat but a few paragraphs had been translated into the common tongue – by the agent of Fen’Harel or for the viddathari converts?

> _Those born outside the Qun… believe the worst that can befall a mage is demon possession. They do not truly understand that the loss of mastery comes with a loss of the self. Those of the Qun since birth do not understand why we risk using saarebas. We have immersed them in a sea of magic until it seems impossible they could ever do anything but drown… there lived an elven mage who saw a great wrong and sacrificed all to right it. This mage made the Veil, which protects us from the Fade… stripped power from his rulers, who had treated their people with such excess… the elven mage became an agent of peace through the Veil… suffering is a choice… we can refuse it._

Would she could re-fuse the Anchor to the orb that made it. She walked up the steps towards Mythal, noting the half-mosaics of Fen’Harel behind her and the full ones of Andruil higher up the wall. A spirit of connection greeted her – another _Ghil-Dirthalen_ , and she’d work _that_ one out later – and gave her the Viddasala’s password for the Darvaarad eluvian – _maraas nehraa_. It… apologised for being sundered.

 _It was not **your** fault_.

****

As they ran back towards the Winter Palace, they passed the eluvian to the Deep Roads, and Virla was struck by a sudden insight. They’d used up all the primers earlier, but now that she could fully discharge the mark, she might be able to blow up the gaatlok near that hidden eluvian. The floodwater had almost reached that level, submerging all the mining complex. Bull wondered if any of the workers had escaped.

Her plan worked, and they stepped into an unknown ruin, to be greeted by an owl with veilfire at its feet. Behind it lay another puzzle – _where the Dread Wolf’s gaze blazes, paths are brought to light_. Her nerves flared yet again as she approached the stone wolf on its circular… turntable, apparently… and the mural behind it, showing Solas on the left and right with sun and moon, the sundering of a giant… Titan?

“Look at this mural! Hold on… I see something hidden in it.” _…a child will see a flicker of truth…_

The veilfire coiled a thunderous voice into her mind: _Hail Mythal, adjudicator and saviour! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!_ Then: the scent of blood, green vines enveloping a fiery sphere, before… darkness for an aeon… then, terror cold as ice, the elves departing, sealing the Deep Roads with stone and magic. A whisper: _What the Evanuris in their greed could unleash would end us all. Let this place be forgotten. Let no-one wake its anger._

As she lit the brazier at the heart of the Titan on the mural, she explained to the others: “The runes say the Evanuris fought the Titans. They mined their bodies for lyrium and… something else. It’s not clear.”

This wolf held a _Heart of Pride_ – surely this had once been Solas’ staff? – echoing with faint, old laughter, and holding energy from the Fade in thrall around it. _You smiled, and I was drowning once again._

After that, no-one could dissuade her from the detour into the elven ruins to explode the gaatlok there. She shivered as she passed the stone Qunari, breathed in the scent of prophet’s laurel, and swore in mad frustration when all the hidden cave revealed was two hundred thousand sovereigns. Dorian exchanged a look with Bull, who started to pile the money into sacks, and pointed Virla towards the massive golden suit of armour. Her gaze tracked up over two tall legs to see four arms, carrying both staff and daggers.

****

“The Qunari are one order from destroying every noble house in the known world,” had said Cullen, before Leliana broke the news that the gaatlok barrels for the Winter Palace came in on the _Inquisition’s_ supply manifest. “How are we supposed to fight a war when we can’t even trust our own people?” Many of the Inquisition’s elven recruits, particularly those from Kirkwall, had gone missing. Qunari spies.

“A few years ago, we railed at the mages at Redcliffe for becoming corrupt,” said Virla, trying to shut out the Anchor’s swelling, searing pain. “We did the same to the Grey Wardens. Hah! Now look at us.”

Josephine turned on Cullen and Leliana in an argument no-one could win about what was right and what simply expedient, and Virla felt she ought to intervene, but the pain was… excruciating. She doubled up in agony, Fen’Harel’s lightning coursing from her hand. At least she’d got her advisers’ full attention now.

“The mark…” _is Fen’Harel’s… Solas’ orb… made the Veil… Viddasala thinks the Breach was not the end…_ “I thought it was fine. It’s been under control for years. All the demons I fought, all the rifts I closed…”

Virlath, Herald of Andraste, closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. No prayer came to her lips.

“…I don’t want to die.”

She took another breath _._ “Not… knowing that the world still needed me. So… I’m going to the Darvaarad.”

_Blood lotus time. No gods._

****

They decided not to tell the Exalted Council, not wishing to alert any spies around, which meant that the Inquisitor had one last job to perform: to set off the fireworks for the evening’s entertainment. These rose high into the darkness of the oncoming storm; Halamshiral presented her with a chromatic greatsword. Virlath took one last look at the scar that marked the Breach, brighter in the darkness. Its shape matched the sigil on the yellow banners that had hung in Skyhold. A lock whose key was going to kill her soon.

****

The Darvaarad turned out to be a massive coastal fortress, with broken eluvians stacked against every wall of the complicated perimeter defences, and tall statues of silver Qunari, naked under unfamiliar stars, each holding high a slender rod. The eluvian they’d just come through was now locked, inactive. The only way was forward, whipped by the wind from the sea. No more side-trips or distractions.

Not that she had time for those. The moon hung high above, still watching.

_Bring the blade to the quays at midnight, or the boy dies._

Bull sprang on the patrolling Qunari soldiers with a bloodcurdling yell, slashing with a blade of fire, ice and fade-touched bees. With one last look back at the massive elven hart standing proud upon a second promontory, and the active eluvian that stood beneath it at the promontory’s base, Virla followed him into the melee. The Viddasala must be in the fortress. Several skirmishes later, they’d worked around to a squat research tower, looking for a key to the gatehouse controls for the fortress’ giant dwarven lock.

“Is that… an astrarium? How did the Qunari move it here?” asked Virla, her attention then immediately drawn by the large stone wolf crouching by a hexagonal Tevinter dragon-ouroboros. _Another puzzle?_

“And one of those weird keys you can only find with a Tranquil’s skull,” said Bull, pointing at a shard.

Dorian frowned, and caught his arm. “A word of advice. Stay away from the glowing pyramid.”

Virla followed Cole up the ladder leading to the upper floor, helping him finish off the Ben-Hassrath agent who had lain in wait for them. “Red lyrium… do the Qunari have any idea what they’re dealing with?”

“The song is different, but the pieces fit together,” said Cole, sounding less sickened than in Sahrnia.

The gatehouse key lay on a desk they found a letter from Saarath, a former Ashkaari – the Qunari term for scientist or philosopher. It was addressed to an elf-who-is-Tallis, explaining that one must tear down the walls of fear and anger in one’s soul to see the truth: _that no-one is alone. What looks like darkness is only the space between stars. The world changes the self, and we must balance mastery upon its turning tides. It will be hard to find wisdom in the noise. The noise is an illusion. Like the darkness. But the walls are real._

Dorian had climbed halfway up the ladder to the topmost floor, and beckoned Virla up.

“A little bird – possibly an owl or raven – tells me you might be interested in this one, Virla.”

It was another elven mural, excavated by the Ben-Hassrath, whose notes said it was believed to be a self-portrait of Fen’Harel. What it actually showed was complex: a hooded figure (elf?) outlined against the moon, pursued/protected by a huge black wolf, the three eyes visible imagined at the centre of a circle (sun?). A darker wolf seemed to lurk inside it, a shadow shape that hinted at more complexities within.

“The inscription’s here,” said Dorian, who had gone out on to a balcony. “One sees the hunter, one flees from it, one hunts it in turn, one outwits them all. I’m generous, so I’ll let you try this first.”

She’d seen three braziers to light: one by a stone owl near the entrance they’d come in; one on the floor up here beside a dragon statue; and a third still attached to a stone hart. So: _owl, hart, dragon… wolf?_

“I’ve got it,” she called from the lowest floor, as the wolf’s eyes lit and she retrieved a… _Bloody Bargain_. The dagger whispered it had belonged to Harlan of the Coterie of Kirkwall… _an apostate, an abomination… a demon of rage poorly impersonating a man._ She thought again of what she’d read of unbound revenants like Gaxkang, and shuddered violently. _Unable to fully halt the decay of the corpse it inhabits…_

“We need to find Viddasala, Boss,” said Bull, when he found her slumped against the wolf, eyes glazed with pain and fear. He encouraged her to stand and drink another healing tincture. _I don’t have long…_

****

The feeling of a nightmare strengthened every minute. Throbbing head and shaking hands, she didn’t know if what she saw was real or something generated from the mark. Crude stone heads on pillars, large black bees and flaring lightning, gaatlok barrels exploding, green lyrium, catalogues of artefacts to stockpile power and knowledge to unlock eluvians, a dragon’s skull that Bull decided he wanted for an armchair. Recent letters between Josephine and the Salasari that suggested Viddasala’s actions had not been approved by the Qun’s Triumvirate, the letters presumably intercepted by those loyal to her.

Beyond a massive pair of doors, the Viddasala lay in ambush, and beyond her they could see an emerald dragon, chained and captive to provide venom for producing gaatlok. The Inquisitor had a moment’s wild panic as the Qunari priestess tried to command Bull to fight on her side, quickly doused as he refused in no uncertain terms. _Not a chance! Ma’am._ The Viddasala fled and left them to engage her troops, fighting up and down the stairs of the gaatlok factory, dodging shrapnel, spears and leaping Saarebas.

Virla plucked some orders from where they had been pinned up to a post: _whoever keeps getting the formula wrong needs to see me immediately!_ Had Solas’ agents been sabotaging the Qunari here as well?

They ran towards the dragon, and Bull turned to her. “So, boss, we gonna fight the dragon or what?”

“She’s scared,” said Cole. “She doesn’t want to be here. They hurt her.”

Dorian pointed at the large portcullis gate. “If we move those rings, we can clear a path for the dragon.”

Somehow, she was not quite sure how, they did it, and watched, exhausted, as the dragon soared away. _Ar lasa mala revas_. They followed it and ran across the bridge to where the Viddasala stood by the hart’s eluvian, guarded by a phalanx of her soldiers. Virla grimaced as the Anchor’s magic tore into her arm.

The contempt etched into the Viddasala’s face was mitigated by a sudden flash of pity for her weakness. “Dear Inquisitor, you have such little time left. You must finally see the truth. Elven magic already tore the sky apart. If the agents of Fen’Harel are not stopped, you will shatter the world as well.”

“Whatever you think I’ve done, mass assassination isn’t a good moral high ground,” spat back Virla, then listened in horror as the Viddasala told Cole and Dorian and Bull that Solas was an agent of Fen’Harel.

“Whatever Solas is involved in,” she countered, blindly angry, “I’m nobody’s puppet.”

“Even now, you refuse to see the strings,” replied the Viddasala, indicating that her troops should start to move through the eluvian. It was flanked by wolves, of course, and hid the mosaic which might have indicated just whose temple lay beyond. “Solas tricked us all.”

The Inquisitor was spared the necessity of forming a reply by a sudden flaring of the Anchor, driving her to her knees upon the cold stone of the bridge. Her hand and arm were burning up, as if a cruel master were torturing her with chain-cast lightning strikes. _I will not kneel… I **will** not_ …

She struggled to her feet again. _I am not your puppet, Fen’Harel._

“Panahedan, Inquisitor,” said the tall Qunari woman, turning to follow the last of her comrades through the eluvian. “If it is any consolation, Solas will not outlive you.”

Virla blinked back tears of pain, wondering what she meant. She turned to face the others, looking fierce. “Solas is the only one who can help with my mark. We find him before Viddasala does.”

If any of them disagreed with her, they didn’t say so.

****

The eluvian led to a ruined temple complex in the mountains – _it strikes me that it mirrors Mythal’s temple in the south,_ thought Virla, as she looked around at leafy trees now bathed in autumn sunlight, and waterfalls, and crows. Had they slipped in time as well?

They chased after the Qunari, climbing up overgrown steps, the Anchor’s pain now far beyond any capacity that Virla, or her wards or potions, could suppress. She had to keep discharging it each minute.

“That can’t be healthy,” said Dorian as they ran and scrambled upwards. “Perhaps Solas can help.”

Cole was upset too. “Solas doesn’t want to hurt people. He isn’t that kind of wolf. The Qunari don’t see.”

_Not that kind of wolf? A wolf that loves and skulks and snarls then turns and runs. Not kind, not kind at all._

Through an archway at the top, they could see the grandest, largest elven temple she had ever seen. Virla caught her breath, for one blissful moment pain forgotten. It stood tall and proud and high, sprawled across the wooded valley, with waterfalls and wolves. Straight across lay a huge eluvian. That might be where the endgame lay, if her lover’s aptitude for theatre was as good as she imagined it might be.

“Over there,” said Bull, pointing at it. “That’s got to be where Solas is.”

Dorian grabbed her other hand, and helped her run.

  



	42. Stonewall, stormheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stonewall Attack is a solid formation (pawns and a mage), hard to overrun by force. Its two downsides are the hole at its heart (e4) and the blocking of the mage’s twin (a suppressed persona, perhaps?).
> 
> “ _…a completely ordinary number, a number not just divisible by two but also six and seven… the sort of number that you could without any fear introduce to your parents._ ” – Douglas Adams
> 
> The end of canon (almost), in which Virla is mostly harmless, and Solas not entirely heartless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to one reader, this needs a "You need to make sure you have a fresh bottle of wine" warning. 
> 
> So here it is.
> 
>   
> 

Virla thrust her arms into the air again, bracing herself for the force of impact, closing her eyes against the discharge flash. Like setting herself alight with highly concentrated veilfire: a ritual Dalish maiden sacrifice to appease Fen’Harel. Her foot caught in a vine and she landed in an ungainly, painful heap. _Take that, Dread Wolf._

Gulping in air, she struggled to her feet as Dorian re-cast a barrier around her, deflecting Qunari spears. The mad pulsing of the Anchor’s heartbeat echoed the racing of her own. She was glad she’d given the Heart of Rage to Dorian: two hearts were really quite enough to cope with.

She stumbled as quickly as she could across an old stone bridge, sufficiently intact, racing the Qunari to the next eluvian. Each mirror gateway turned blood red behind them once they’d all jumped through. From that alone she knew that Solas must be near: surely she could have no other ally controlling the mirrors here with such precision. They killed as few Qunari as they dared, and kept on running.

Without Dorian reminding her to keep discharging, she never would have managed it. Her skin was burning up, her legs were shaking, her mind a seething mass of fears and hopes; false clarity. It seemed suddenly far more urgent to know the answer to the ultimate question – _What happens when I die?_

She realised they were fighting Viddasala’s Saarebas, Bull yelling about Seheron, more Qunari running in, and no way through the iron gate that blocked the next eluvian. Qunari called the Fade the realm of the dead. _What happens when you hold the hand that made the portal to it?_ All around were remnants of Fen’Harel mosaics, gaatlok, shattered eluvians: mementos of destruction. _What happens to my memories?_

“Discharge!” yelled Dorian again, just as they were all sucked in to the Qunari mage’s feet.

****

Viddasala stood by an eluvian whose iridescent sheen obscured its destination, and taunted her again: “You are dead, Inquisitor! Your soul is dust!” Then Saarath leaped in and blocked the path to her.

Virla discharged the Anchor once again, thinking – _stardust? Redcliffe clay? –_ as she fell, that it must be true what Bull had said, that the tamassrans bred in dragons somewhere. If lyrium enhancement gave Qunari mages this much power, to seal off the eluvian and fight this fiercely, what had the Evanuris done that terrified the elves so much they sealed the Deep Roads? Leashed a dragon to that lyrium spring? She looked up at the twins above her: archers, wolves. No sign of Mythal; the whole place was a shrine to _him._

The accumulated magic, thick and black, tore through the Veil, and shades poured in. Demons of rage and pride, and wraiths. _Elgar’nan’s pride was great, and his vengeance was terrible, and he refused to release the sun, his father. What if the sun was…?_

“He’s invulnerable! Use your mark!” shouted Dorian, pulling her back to where Saarath hung, suspended in a cloud of bees and pulsing Fade-reflections of himself: impossible, transparent, white.

The resulting explosion didn’t even leave a body. She grabbed her staff and ran for the eluvian.

****

Later, she realised that she’d known for sure the moment the eluvian turned red, not even letting _Cole_ pass through behind her. The horde of giant stone Qunari would have scared her half to death, had she not been well beyond that point already, and to see him actually perform the deed – to petrify the Viddasala with her spear arm raised to throw, without even breaking step or turning round – well… that would have been the other half, except that dying terrified her more than living at that moment.

But nothing prepared her for the way he looked. If the Inquisitor had thought about it she might have remembered Abelas, and gilded elven armour. Virlath had thought of wolves, and crows, and dragons; the simple garb he’d worn in Haven; the Dalish Keeper’s robes; the scarlet Inquisition uniform… but not…

Silver, gold, a wolf pelt flaunted cross-wise. And he was walking to that huge eluvian, its surface obscurely grey and cold, and… he surely knew that she was there… he’d let her through, but he was going…?

She’d called to him, not thinking about which name to call, just – _Solas._

He’d stopped. He’d turned around. She’d felt her mouth fall open, slightly.

He looked like Fen’Harel _should_ look.

She fell to her knees in the pool of water on the stones, eyes blinded by the Anchor’s light, not meeting his… not even knowing why she did so: pain, or deference, or fear? The shock of seeing him again – at last, alive, two years, he’s _here –_ and the evidence of true power in the stone Qunari all around them – _your forces have failed…_ still watching? dead? he didn’t even turn _around!_ – dulled any pain. Stone pressed in.

And so, when the Anchor abruptly stopped its flaring, Virla still stared numbly at her hand and its reflection, before slowly standing up and finally, tentatively, raising her eyes to his. _Solas, is this real?_

“That should give us more time,” he said, sorrow etched around his eyes. “I suspect you have questions.”

It might have even been funny, once, but now the painful subtext was too clear: _I drew you here to fix the mark, but we don’t have long, so only ask the ones you really need, that I can answer._ And she didn’t know how much he knew about what _she_ knew: about the fresco, about Caritas, the other worlds, his nature…

Or which one he was, or what he had become. The Inquisitor took a breath, and kept her whole expression guarded. “The Qunari answered some of those questions. The information I gathered while travelling through the eluvians answered more. You’re Fen’Harel. You’re the Dread Wolf.”

“Well done,” he said, and she realised he was utterly, bewitchingly, afraid of her reaction. “I was Solas first. “Fen’Harel” came later… an insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends, and fear in my enemies. Not unlike “Inquisitor”, I suppose.”

She nodded slightly, as if to urge him on. He paused a beat, and looked away, before resuming, softly: “And now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you?”

The Veil was thin here as it had once been in Crestwood, and she could not bear his pain. _I will not cry, not here, not now._ She looked down at the water by her feet, whispering: “And so he did.”

“I did not,” he said, pride strengthening his voice again. “I would not lay with you under false pretences.”

Virla’s head snapped right back up, the sound of his pride bolstering her own. “But you lied to me. I _loved_ you. Did you really think I wouldn’t have understood?”

He dropped his head in sorrow for her necessary pain. “ _Ir abelas,_ _vhenan_.”

“ _Tel’abelas._ If you care, give me the truth.” _Dirth ma, harellan. No more lies in frescos._

He walked along the edge of the ravine, trying to determine just how much she meant to him, perhaps.

She followed, and waited. And her patience was rewarded, for he told her… something true, at least.

“I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people, and in so doing, destroyed their world.”

****

There was time for some more questions, some more answers – the loss of elven immortality was _his_ fault; without the Veil the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world; they were banished forever… _an eternity of torment_ … as the only fitting punishment for the murderers of Mythal. It was hard to imagine that he’d ever smiled and chuckled with them while riding to her temple. But this… he wasn’t acting.

“I thought Mythal was one of the Evanuris,” said Virla, thinking of a blue triangle, curving sides, crowned with a golden sphere and dressed in lyrium. Beside a matching fresco of Celene, the living Empress.

“She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her.” He shook his head, as if he could not quite believe it real.

 _But is she dead?_ “The Evanuris were elven mages. How did they come to be remembered as gods?”

His face twisted further as he looked away, around the fortifications, back. “Slowly. It started with a war. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. After the war ended, generals became respected elders, then kings, and finally gods. The Evanuris.”

Virla nodded, and even that slight movement freed the Anchor from its temporary numbness. Pain began to build once more. _We never had long in this world…_ “That’s the past. What about the future?”

Solas began to walk again towards the mirror, as if pulled by hidden threads into a nightmare.

“I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you. My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means _this_ world must die.”

 _I will do whatever lies within my power…_ “Let me help you, Solas.”

“I cannot do that to you, _vhenan_ ,” he said, not turning round.

Virla stepped towards his back. “But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you, alone.”

“I walk the _din’anshiral_. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

His head was bowed and she bowed hers as well, both haunted by nightmares, dragons, darkspawn, demons. Yet the moment passed, and when she opened them again, his head was up and he had turned around, more beautiful and fey than ever, and more guarded. The passing tremor in his voice was gone.

“It is my fight. You should be more concerned with the Inquisition. Your Inquisition. In stopping Dragon’s Breath, you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. With luck, they will return their focus to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.”

****

His guardedness reminded Virlath she was still Inquisitor… that people would expect her to protect the world, and smile serenely while she did it. They spoke of the Qunari plot, his spies, the inevitable fate of the Inquisition as betrayal and corruption, the value of a few years’ peace and freedom from the Qun.

That he was not a monster, not quite heartless. Yet.

****

He did not directly admit his friend Felassan’s/agent’s death, but did acknowledge that the eluvians were under his control; and admitted that his agents had allowed the Venatori to locate his orb, saving her the decision of whether to confront him about Corypheus and reveal her knowledge of his tryst with Flemeth.

“The orb had built up magical energy while I lay unconscious for millennia. I was not powerful enough to open it. The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him. Then I would claim the orb.” He looked away, and shook his head. “I did not foresee a Tevinter magister having learnt the secret of effective immortality.”

_Nor my intervention. So what if I had not responded to Justinia’s call for help, or no-one had?_

“What would have happened if Corypheus had died and you’d recovered the orb?”

“I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves.”

“If you destroyed the Veil, wouldn’t the false gods be freed?” And... _what about the Truce?_

“I had plans,” he said, so typically… himself, and elven… Dalish, even.

“So at least some of the stories about the Dread Wolf are true,” she sighed.

“I did not lead a rebellion against immortal mage-kings without getting my hands bloody.” His aura swirled with power again, till now suppressed. “You must understand. I awoke into a world where the Veil had blocked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”

“We aren’t even people to you?” _Not even stone, but dust. Not stardust. Dustspawn._

“Not at first. You showed me that I was wrong… again. That does not make what must come next any easier,” he said. Words tripping off his tongue too easily, a wound so scarred it had been set in stone.

“You never cared about us,” she said, to rip the pumice/poultice off. “We were the means to an end.”

Her efforts seemed to merely lay another layer of bitter ash upon the scar, and her realisation of that yet another. She wished that she could take back those cruel words, and thank him, one last time.

Fen’Harel nodded as if he’d heard her prayer. “You were people, and you deserved better… like all the rest I have used in one hopeless battle after another.”

The taste of ash – of failure, of defeat – was in her mouth as well, and burning in her hand. She clenched her fist and showed it to him. _This is our fault too, you know._

“There’s still the matter of the Anchor. It’s getting worse.”

His voice cracked. “I know, _vhenan_. And we are running out of time.”

At “time” she felt his will of stone release her hand, set free the mad sun’s veilfire heart within it. She fell to her knees again, this time no deference, no fear of him, just agony from palm to jawbone. He’d protected her as well, she knew. They could not have defeated Corypheus without him… so, like her, he had saved the world… for now.

Solas crouched down in front of her: still tall, straight-backed, still proud… still minded to be kind to dust. It was her hand that wept with fire, not his with blood. _To carve you out of sand each day…_

“The mark will eventually kill you,” he explained. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.”

_I still love you, and I think I always shall. Even if I only hear dead whispers._

The pile of dust looked up, and met his eyes. “Solas, _var lath vir suledin_.”

“I wish it could, _vhenan_ ,” he said, not meeting hers.

She screamed in pain, and that struck through, somehow.

He leant forward. “My love,” he whispered, and bent his head across to kiss her. She felt the shaper’s magic slicing through the Veil, his will entirely focused on not causing pain, and not the gentle kiss itself.

He stood: a god against the fateful mirror. Walked: molten veil-sand shimmer gone.

“I will never forget you,” had been his last words, spun in stardust, embers long exploded, Veil-vast, gone.

Her hand disintegrated into ash. _That’s gone as well._

Selfishly, she wished the wall around his heart could do so too.

 

{ }

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Truth is not the end, but a beginning..._


	43. Tied cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft, not stone; adrift; abandoned, not alone: Virla tries to understand why the Dread Wolf doesn’t want her help, and finds that there are others who still want to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments - I really do appreciate each one. Here's to new beginnings... of a sort!

It was as if the stone paralysis he’d used to freeze the Anchor’s pain had formed around the rest of her instead: her heart, her thoughts, her legs. She couldn’t move, not even to run after him and fling herself against the mirror. It turned blood-red and closed to her. Too late. Nothing to see but blood and stones and leaves and memories of glowing eyes; nothing to hear but pleasant waterfalls and roaring in her mind.

_You saved my life again. Do I **want** to live without you? You’re not dead. You’re not a monster, yet. _

How many times had she had to pick herself back up or wonder where he’d gone? After Haven (twice), after first kisses (Fade and real), after Sophiyel’s death, after Crestwood, after Corypheus, and all the revelations since… and what had brought him back to her? The mark, the orb, his love, her constancy, the need to save her life? Did he still hope she might find a way to change his mind, his heart?

_Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin. We’ll make it all right._

Virla dragged her eyes away, down from the huge and locked eluvian. With an effort she forced herself to look down at her arm, or what remained of it. She could feel that Fen’sulevin had been told to use what strength it had to keep the pain away. In perhaps an hour’s time, she guessed, reality and pain would hit her. The wards he left would only last so long, she’d need to find a tourniquet to stop the blood, and…

****

“Virla, wake up,” said Cole, kneeling down beside her. “It’s me, it’s Cole, he let me through to help you.”

She opened her eyes, startled and afraid, and looked around. “Where is he, Cole? Where’s Solas?”

Cole sighed, real tears sparkling in his eyes. “He’s gone. I didn’t see him. I’m sorry. He just let me through and told me that you’d need me. _If she needs Bull or Dorian as well, then… then they come later._ ”

She still felt numb, and nothing worked. “Can you send a message back? Can you tell me where he is?”

He looked embarrassed. “It… it doesn’t work that way. I’m not light enough to slip into the Fade; I’ve grown. I’ve learnt too much. But, Virla, can’t you _guess_?”

An image of an elven god in gold and silver: standing, watching, through the mirrors, came to mind, and almost broke her sanity again. _Why did it only talk facing one way?_

She pointed towards the mirror with her missing hand, and Cole, still reading her intent not gesture, nodded too. She grimaced. “I… don’t think… I can bear this, Cole. We’ve got to get away from here.”

“Yes. He has to stay to let us out of here. It hurts him too. Can you walk, or do I carry you?”

“I can walk… I think. Can you grab my staff from where I dropped it in the water?”

She managed to stand up. Her left arm hung limply at her side, the arm and armour burnt away from just below the elbow. A perfect circular cut away to nothing, as if the Ring of Doubt had lost most of its magic and had only turned a single arm invisible. Her balance was all wrong. She took the arm Cole offered.

“Your arm hurts, but your heart hurts more,” he said, and guided her down beside the waterfall.

The small eluvian shone brightly as the love of Fen’Harel stumbled around the stone Qunari, eyes bright with tears – _ar lath ma, ‘ma vhenan –_ not knowing whether she hoped he watched and heard her prayers or not. She gripped Cole tighter, feeling reality in fabric and the now-too-human arm beneath it.

“It… it feels wrong to be going back, away from him,” she said aloud, her voice shakier than she wanted.

Cole frowned, as if listening again. “The shaper must first walk away if he is to return.”

“Was that him?”

“Anger, quiet, cold against the Qun. One quick pulse to petrify, then keep on walking. _Virlath sa’vunin_ , time it right. I only have the time to see her, save her once. Live well, my love, while time...”

Terror cold as ice gripped Virla’s heart as the eluvian began to fade to black. “Cole, please stop. Let’s go.”

****

The eluvian had led straight back into the Crossroads, where The Iron Bull and Dorian were shouting at each other, sick with nerves and anger. She walked up to them, and placed a hand on… placed a hand on Dorian’s arm, and looked up to Bull’s eye. Cole stood some way behind her, clearly still upset as well.

“Your arm… it’s gone!” said Dorian, putting a hand out to touch the space, then quickly drawing back.

Bull took a slow and calming breath. “What happened, Boss? Did you find… Solas?”

She nodded, face twisting as she gazed up at the rainbow sky. “Can I… can I… tell you later? The Qunari… they won’t bother us for now. Please, can you… get me back… to my room in the Palace… without anybody seeing? We need to leave the Crossroads now, before he… before the last eluvian gets closed.”

Bull’s eye softened. “Right you are, Boss. This place gives me the creeps. _Kadan,_ give me your cloak.”

****

Dorian’s cloak had hidden her arm, or what was left of it, from view. As soon as the door to the Inquisitor’s suite had closed behind them, Bull picked her up in his arms, and laid her on the bed. She was grateful that he’d seen that she could hardly stand, so violently was she shaking underneath the cloak.

“What do you need, Boss?

“I need…” _Solas._ “I need…” _Solas._ She burst into tears, trying to cover her face with both hands and finding half her face uncovered still, like a mirage of half an elven face, without the marks. _He took those too._

Bull sat down on the bed beside her, heavy and obscurely comforting, and put a massive, muscled arm around her. “It’s ok, cry it out. You’re not even the first elven redhead girl who’s cried upon this chest.”

Dorian had knelt down upon her left… the other… side, and took a closer look. “Cole, can you get cotton bandages and water? I think that Solas’ wards are wearing off, and we’ll need to be prepared for that.”

Virla buried her face and hand against Bull’s leather shoulder-guard, her voice muffled. “He… saved my life. Again. And… left. Again. And Bull, I never thanked you properly… for in the Darvaarad.”

“It’s alright. Still got a redhead for my boss, I’m good. Ready to tell us what happened with the Viddasala yet? Or with Fen’… Solas?”

She felt her body stiffen. She hadn’t even thought about how much she could afford to tell them all.

Cole’s voice came from near her ear, as he placed the jug of water from her dresser on the table near the bed for Dorian to use. “Let them help you, Virla. He didn’t mean for you to be alone.”

“He should have fucking stayed with her, then, Cole,” growled Bull, then sighed. “Sorry, Boss. Tal-Vashoth, remember? Look, I’m smarter than I look, and Dorian is… a Tevinter magister, but I’ll vouch for him… and Cole is… _Cole._ All of us have stuck with you, because you’re actually good at what you do, and care.”

“Solas doesn’t want to hurt people either,” reiterated Cole, determinedly, while Bull ignored him.

“So though I _want_ to punch your boyfriend’s nose and wreck his pretty ancient elvhen cheekbones…”

“Less of the “pretty”, _amatus…_ ” said Dorian. Virla managed a weak smile up at Bull.

“…I’m not going to. Not just because I couldn’t help out with Dorian’s frustration issues if I were a giant statue like the other ones, and like I’m guessing Viddasala is as well. He’s Fen’Harel, yeah?”

Virla nodded, flinching as Dorian began to wash and wrap the place where her arm should be. It felt strange, as if his hands were _in_ her arm, even when she turned her head to look, a wry smile on her lips.

“I saw him petrify the Viddasala. He confirmed that he was Fen’Harel. You knew as well?”

Dorian met her gaze, eyes sad and haunted, while his hands continuing working. “After you had gone through the eluvian, and it didn’t let us through, we talked about it. Cole had just let slip that he wasn’t that kind of _wolf_. Viddasala said he was an _agent_ of Fen’Harel. We didn’t think that Solas was the kind of man to do somebody else’s dirty work. Those murals. His knowledge of the Fade. Those elven artefacts he made us all look for. Do you by any chance remember Solas telling me that I ought to free all Tevinter’s slaves?”

Virla took a breath, and recited, straight from memory: _Your nostalgia for the ancient elves, however romanticized, is pointless. If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today. / I… don’t know that I can do that. / Then how sorry are you?_

A mirthless chuckle escaped him. “Maker’s breath, you really are just like him. I bet you’ve memorised everything he ever said, and it’s been a running commentary inside your mind for years. How long have you known about it? I can’t believe you didn’t know before, my dear, you’re far too calm.”

“Not before Corypheus, but I guessed a while back. It… made sense of… some of the things he said and did. I could sob some more into Bull’s shoulder, if you want,” she offered, suppressing mild hysteria. “I mean, a proper Dalish girl should run a mile before she trusts the Dread Wolf.”

“Go right ahead, Boss,” said Bull, giving her another squeeze around her shoulders. “Run the mile, I’ve got your back. Until he turns me into stone. Being Tal-Vashoth might save me though.”

She shivered, suddenly remembering the nightmares, dragons, his vow to save the elven people, even at the cost of this world’s death. “I don’t know. The Qunari were his major target. He’d said he hoped they’d return their focus to Tevinter – sorry, Dorian – and that he hoped it would give us some… peace.”

“I had to go back, anyway,” said Dorian, thinking of his father’s death. He looked older, sadder… wiser. He finished bandaging her arm, and moved a chair to sit beside the bed more comfortably.

“Do you trust him?” asked Cole, still standing, and she felt the others hold their breath as well.

“I… don’t know. He saved my life. I’m sure I would have died if he hadn’t cut the Anchor off. Though he said it would eventually kill me, but didn’t make it clear how long. He stopped the Qunari plot against the south, and between us I think we probably killed more Qunari than he petrified. But…”

His voice was ringing in her ears: _as this world burned in the raw chaos… I walk the din’anshiral, there is only death on this journey… I would not have you see what I become…_

She sighed, and shook her head. “I’m going to need some time to think this through. I’ve just met with the man I love, who I hadn’t seen for two whole years and thought might actually be dead… and he told me that he raised the Veil to banish all the gods my clans believe in, just like in the tales I heard while growing up, that _he’s_ the reason elves are not immortal, that he has a bunch of spies within the Inquisition, that he controls the eluvians Briala had, and the ones the Qunari had as well… and the Dread Wolf took my arm, and… told me that he loved me still… and he was just so _sad_ … and all of this took about ten minutes… then he went into that fucking huge eluvian and left me, then watched us till we got out of the Crossroads so that he could shut the eluvians behind us like those bloody demons watching from the Fade.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, and exchanged a glance with Bull. Cole looked uncomfortable.

“Spirits,” she growled. “And for all I fucking know he’s in my fucking mind with the remnants of his fucking orb and listening. No wait… _even the lowliest peasant may find freedom in the safety_ _of her thoughts._ ”

“He wouldn’t do that,” agreed Cole. “Not if it wasn’t necessary.”

“Yes, well, if he won’t _tell_ me what he’s planning then how can I decide what he’ll think necessary? He put _spies_ in the Inquisition, Cole. He wouldn’t let me go with him and help him.”

“You wanted to go and help him even though you have no idea what he is up to, and even though he’s Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf? Virla, you’ve got it really bad,” said Dorian.

While she was trying to work out how to explain that it was not infatuation, or at least, not _primarily_ infatuation, Dorian continued. “You know that if you called to him you would have Cullen running like a slobbering mabari, or probably half the elven Libertarians you freed. You don’t have to settle for an ancient elvhen rebel god. Though when I put it like that, it does sound kind of sexy. Even if he did choose to dress like an unwashed hobo when he was with us.”

“Cheekbones, _kadan._ That’s all I’m saying,” said Bull. “No wait, nice hands as well. And eyelashes. And…”

“Stop it, both of you,” said Virla, though she couldn’t help but smile at the normality of it. “This is a _god_ we’re talking about. The Lord of Tricksters, Roamer of the Beyond… the Bringer of Nightmares…”

“An ancient elvhen rebel god that built the Veil,” mused Dorian. “I wonder if we can work out how he did that. We’ve got the notes the Qunari made. Someone must be able to make sense of them.”

“What did he look like, Virla?” asked Bull, still with his arm around to steady her, but leaning forward to observe her face. “From the way you blushed just now I’m guessing that he scrubbed up well.”

“He… yes…” she stammered, then got hold of herself. “None of you saw Abelas at the Temple of Mythal, but he was wearing elven armour like that. Gilded, moulded, proper boots…”

Dorian chuckled. “I’m glad he took some pride in his appearance when he met you. After all our teasing.”

“Well, his name is _Solas_. It means pride, just like Pavus does. Fen’Harel is just a title… _a badge of pride_ , he said. He wore a wolf pelt crossed over one shoulder, but neat not messily, as if it was in fashion, with his old wolf jawbone dangling from his belt. He looked like a soldier, like he told us he once was… a general, a commander.” _Generals, then respected elders… then kings…_ “Or even like an elven prince. I don’t know what you’d _think_ a god should look like, but I’d say that he looked more like one than Flemeth did.”

“Does he have an army?” asked Bull, as Cole poured out some mugs of ale, and passed them round.

Virla shrugged. “I’d be surprised… you’d think we’d have heard of it if so.”

“Unless it was a demon army. Or an army full of ancient elves.”

“With his dislike of Tevinter and the Qun I think he’d take it north,” said Dorian. “Even if he doesn’t have an army that’s where I bet he’d go. He’s obsessed with freeing slaves, and that’s where most of them are.”

“If I wanted to go to Tevinter…” started Virla, before meeting Dorian’s suddenly icy gaze.

“It’s going to be at war, and just in case you don’t remember – _the Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf._ Particularly not one as young and beautiful and valuable as you. You think you heard the worst of it from the nobles of Orlais? At least in Halamshiral or Val Royeaux the elves are only poor and weak. And what if the Qunari take Tevinter? You hate what they do to saarebas as much as I do.”

“I’m a mage. Doesn’t that make something of a difference?” asked Virla, feeling a tinge of irritation at that loaded word _valuable_ and a larger, growing pulse of worry at how difficult her missing hand might make her life. _I’ll find a way to manage. Maybe Dagna can help me out, or…_ “And if any group of people has the knowledge to replace my missing hand, or more lore about the ancient elvhen, it’s got to be Tevinter.”

Dorian groaned. “Well, if I do have to take a caravan or ship back soon, I may or may not take you back, and introduce you to the Lucerni. How long do you think this Exalted Council will take?”

“I could probably cut the process short,” said Virla, casting a rueful glance at her arm, then chuckled darkly at a private memory. _Anyone with a grain of sense would have cut his finger off instead. / Not everyone’s as brave as you, Inquisitor._ “I should be more upset about my arm, but the Anchor’s been so painful that I honestly thought that I would die… to know I have at least a few more years, and friends to help…”

Her voice faltered; Bull raised his glass. “Here’s to Fen’Harel then, Virla. And to _not_ being Qunari.”

  
  
  



	44. Royal sea silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Royal Game_ by Stefan Zweig takes place upon a cruise ship. The monomaniac world chess champion encounters a man who stayed sane through a long solitary confinement only by memorising a book of past masters’ games of chess, which led him into the dangerous activity of playing chess against himself. 
> 
> Virla Lavellan’s also on a ship.

It was impossibly hard to remember life before the Conclave and life before the mark. Virla was trying, but the sensations simply slipped away, like a ruined arm disintegrating into ash. She frowned down at the space where it had been. Had it ever truly existed, before the Anchor sank its blinding light into her hand?

_That’s the past. What about the future?_

The other hand held a slim bound volume: _The Inquisitor Lavellan Story: All this Shit is Weird_.

 _Well… thank you, Varric._ A brief impulse swept over her, needlessly dramatic, to drop it in the starlit sea.

The Waking Sea. _Would that she could._ Although… the dreams were fainter now, no hand to call the demons in the night to her burning watchman’s light, kin to the Old God Lusacan’s dark servant.

Only knowledge gained from studying remained. She’d saved the world, resolved the war, and yet... What was it Caritas had said, some wisdom from that other world, where Thedas was a game and all her friends and enemies were pieces? _Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it._

It sounded like something Solas might have said, if the Dread Wolf ever had had the courage to explain himself to her, rather than the courage to endure his path in silence and alone. She thought of Redcliffe and his fresco: figures on a wheel of time; of undulating dragon-fire; and shivered. The Solas that had died within that future road not taken had said it was an abomination that must never come to pass. What if even those who _did_ remember were condemned as well? _I would not have you see what I become._

A circle might have no end but still a starting point. She drew one on the deck rail with a ghostly finger.

Funny, that. At least she knew what “obviate” meant now.

****

Once, in blissful ignorance, she’d quoted poetry to him and praised the intelligence of wolves: an arrogant Dalish teenager expounding on the theology of Fen’Harel. _Some see him as a metaphor for death, or time. Perhaps if we knew his reasons for locking the elven gods away, it would help,_ she had said.

Well, he had told her, and it hadn’t helped.

He’d said that they had killed Mythal. That without the Veil he’d built, the Evanuris – the Creator gods she’d once believed in, _prayed_ to – would have destroyed the world. That they who once had been immortal now were not. That he had brought down Elvhenan, had sunk the elvhen empire to its knees to free its slaves. Had dreamed through all the wars and ages since, incapable of rebuilding it directly. Had observed the slow decline and fall and blamed himself throughout. Surely he had spoken to Andraste, urged her fight against a Blight-weakened Tevinter, pushed the Shartans into fighting…

No wonder he despised Tevinter, where elves must kneel to clean or lick or suck or bleed.

No wonder he had never let her kneel to him. Both love and pride had stopped his hand.

No wonder he had been reluctant to disclose to her his deeds. Not a metaphor for death or time, but living death, immortal… and she a mayfly hardly worthy of his notice. Any other person at the Conclave, given the mark, would surely have done what she did to defeat Corypheus, whether dwarven, elven, human or Vashoth. Caritas had said as much.

_I will save the elven people, even if it means **this** world must die._

Did he know about those other worlds with other Conclaves? He’d queried whether she could control time and keep her memories, which suggested that he had thought about the theory, at least. Might she save him from _din’anshiral_ , his path of death? She wasn’t sure that she knew where to start.

But regardless of whether it was phantom fingers tracing circles on the rail – or a fisherman watching the stars, dying alone – perhaps the most important thing was to keep going. _Virlath sa’vunin_ , one more day.

“You’re up late, Virla,” said Dorian, staggering less than elegantly towards her as the ship pitched forward.

She turned and smiled, and gestured with Varric’s gift towards the eastern dawn. “Actually, I’m up early, and I’m surprised to see you’re up at all. Are you not violently seasick on these journeys?”

“Clearly the rosy dawn obscures the greenness of my complexion, or you wouldn’t ask.”

“Ah. Would you welcome company to pass the time and take your mind off it?”

He leant upon the rail beside her, and looked down at the choppy sea below, before drawing back with a shudder. “That would be marvellous, provided we go inside and you _don’t_ ask me how I’m feeling.”

****

They sat for a while in silence in their tiny cabin, Dorian tucked up once again in the lower bunk with an iron bowl to hand, and Virla cross-legged on the floor, her back right up against the wall.

“You said you were up early. Was that an inability to sleep, or did you actually want to watch the dawn?”

“I might have wanted to be reassured of the existence of the sun,” murmured Virla.

“Andraste dressed in cloth of starlight, armoured in moonlight, stood before you, but you wanted more?”

“I… saw the darkness warp and crumble, for it was thin as samite, a fragile shroud over the Light which turned it to ash… I was thinking about when we were in that future Redcliffe.”

Dorian sighed. “You do choose remarkably unpleasant things to think about at night. It seems a ludicrously long time ago now, particularly now poor Alexius is gone. You couldn’t have recited verses from the Canticle of Exaltations then, so Dalish as you were. We’ve weathered many a storm since then… ugh.”

Virla watched him sip from a mug of ale and fight against his nausea. “Much of what I know about Tevinter comes from the Chant of Light. And the elves of the time of Halamshiral revered Andraste, if Ameridan was any guide. _The empty space where our hearts hunger for a forgotten face._ ”

Embarrassment flickered across Dorian’s face as he wedged the empty bowl back between himself and the wall, and Virla readied herself for the expected question. “I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss,” he parried. “Darkness fell upon the Lonely One, a Night without moon or stars.”

“Indeed. I fear that Lusacan awaits us. Or Razikale. O Shadow that obscures…”

Dorian snorted. “What, in Tevinter? Maker forbid! It’s bad enough I have to take the elven Herald of Andraste back home with me, to look at me sternly when I talk of wreaking vengeance and set the Magisterium’s tongues wagging once again – and before you ask, they wag like eloquent mabari tails – but if we are going to have dragons as well, I’ll ask the captain of the ship to turn around right now.”

Virla laughed. “I missed you, Dorian. And I appreciate your changing your plans to wait for me.”

“Against my better judgement, though I admit I am impressed at you convincing Cullen to let you come. And what about your Keeper? You appear to be being given remarkable latitude for a First, even one who’s met Mythal. Did Fen’Harel have a little word with either of them, a _dark whisper_ in their dreams?”

“You’re not asking the question you want to ask, _‘ma falon_. I didn’t even attempt to convince Cullen, so he’ll hear from Leliana in a week or so. I hardly think he’ll chase me to Tevinter. Hawen, well…”

“You’re right, and I’ll ask that question in a minute. Tell me about Hawen. You went back to the clan?”

The visit had taken most of the preceding fortnight, following the conclusion of the Exalted Council and a mercifully busy stay at Skyhold. That had been the only thing she’d insisted on before the negotiations for disbanding the Inquisition: that Skyhold would stay under her management. Josephine had delicately implied in certain quarters that the fortress’ ancient elven magicks were prone to chaotic aberrations, which only the Inquisitor had so far managed to control. Neither Ferelden nor Orlais pressed the point.

How she was going to maintain a fortress at the same time as a Dalish clan, and without the Inquisition’s staff, was a problem for another day. _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ was _hers_ , given to her by Fen’Harel himself.

Dorian coughed, and she realised that she’d lost herself in reverie once again. “Yes, I went back to my clan, Clan Al’var, and had a series of long conversations with Hawen. I told him about the planned Qunari invasion and that we chased them into the Deep Roads and an enchanted ancient library – the Vir Dirthara – to disrupt the plot. I asked him if he thought it was possible that Fen’Harel created the Veil as part of his plan to trick the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, that that was how he kept them in their prisons, or whether a raising of the Veil was how the elves lost our immortality. He did think that was possible.”

“You didn’t tell him your boyfriend was Fen’Harel?”

She shook her head. “Keepers are used to keeping secrets, but I thought it was unfair to Hawen to give him that one yet. It’s a Keeper’s duty to protect their clan from the Dread Wolf. It would have left him… conflicted about what to do with me. I think he’s proud to have a First who has spoken with Mythal, but Fen’Harel is quite another matter. I led him a while back to think that Solas was a follower of Mythal who also had his vallaslin removed, and he has no particular reason to connect the trees.”

“A hunting metaphor, I presume. Given how many secrets you’ve been keeping lately, my dear, you’ll make an excellent Dalish Keeper, if indeed that is your goal. Is Hawen in good health?”

“I perceive that you’ve been practising your manners ahead of our return to Tevinter, Dorian. For the most part, I believe. It was his suggestion that our clan should move into the grounds of Skyhold. I’m not sure how he’ll get on with Baron Desjardins or Harding, but I judge each of them loyal to me.”

“And sufficiently suspicious of the others to preserve it for you. Cunning worthy of the Dread Wolf’s girlfriend, Virla. Did Madame de Fer offer her services as custodian, furnish it in marble, etcetera?”

“Mmm, yes, she did,” said Virla, smiling. “To be fair to her, I think it was at least partly a genuine attempt at friendship. She approves of Desjardins though, and with his links to Josephine and Antiva he’s not completely bought out by Orlais. He gets on well with the Chantry hierarchy, and with Banon and Gatsi.”

“And our beloved Scout Harding knows what trouble looks like, and how to cut it down to size.”

“Precisely, and she’s Fereldan too. Lace and Charter know that Solas is also Fen’Harel, and so do Cassandra and Leliana, you and Cole and Bull. Eight of us. All of us are used to keeping secrets.”

Dorian raised his empty mug to her, and grimaced. “Here’s to better wine in Tevinter, and to a first.”

Virla laughed out loud, for the briefest of moments forgetting all her worries. “You are toasting a Dalish First? That’s even more scandalous than the Herald of Andraste toasting a Tevinter magister, surely.”

“You underestimate how scandalous you are, my dear, but we can talk of that later. No, I meant a first for us: you actually explained to me the workings of the subtle intelligence that lurks behind your plans.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to convince you that I’m not like Solas. And… you still haven’t asked the question.”

The early morning sun had lit the cabin now, shining through the pane of yellow glass above Virla’s head. It gilded Dorian’s face in sudden gold above his sombre black silk outfit and the roughspun counterpane as he responded. “I’m working up to it. Magisters do have a reputation to be maintained for never saying what they mean until they’ve lulled you into a false sense of obscurity. Very well, here goes.”

“You want to ask if I think that Solas is the Maker,” said Virla, taking pity on him as silence stretched out.

“ _Venhedis,_ not like that! Well, all right, I suppose that it does sort of… reduce… to that, but it is a…”

Virla’s lips twisted in amusement. “A vast oversimplification? That’s how Solas described the standard Circle description of the Veil as a barrier between Thedas and the Fade. Without it… _a world where imagination defines reality, where spirits are as common as trees or grass… I am glad I am not alone in seeing the beauty of such a world, along with the obvious peril._ What did you think of the Vir Dirthara?”

“Beautiful, and strange. Reminiscent of some ancient buildings in Tevinter, actually. Bull freaked out of course, but then he would. In another life he would have made an excellent architect in Minrathous. But we digress. If I asked the question in that terribly oversimplified way you put it, how would you respond?”

“Cole and Solas sometimes spoke about the Maker, suggesting he was far away, or that people had been tricked into fighting the Maker. There was something involving a pair of brothers fighting. My instinct says that Solas needs to forgive himself for what he did to Elvhenan, allow himself to change, be mortal.”

“Give himself a good re-birthing, so to speak? Sorry, perhaps that was insensitive.”

She flushed and lowered her eyes to hide the sudden tears. “I have contemplated the possibility that it might involve his death, or loss of memories. _The wise must sometimes give people what they need_ …” Dorian passed a silken handkerchief. She reached for it with her left hand, her right hand steadying her against the constant rolling of the ship, before she realised she must use the other one. She wiped her eyes carefully, took a deep breath and started over. _Things defined by their absence…_

“The Maker is mostly defined by his absence in Andrastian traditions, by his effect on others rather than the being himself… or _itself_. The Canticle of Threnodies comes from a Slave Dirge sung during uprisings in Tevinter from at least the time of Andraste, so it is not controversial to suggest it comes from the elven oral tradition. The first of the Maker’s people are spirits, also not controversial. Now, one of the few things Solas said to me about the Evanuris before he did… this…”, said Virla, waving a hand at her sundered arm, “was: _The first of my People do not die so easily._ It doesn’t mean he created them though.”

“In a world where imagination defines reality, who imagined demons? And who imagined them?”

“Threnodies 5:7 suggests that the first-born created envy by themselves, as a consequence of the creation of the second-born. So one question is whether the first-born are spirits and the second-born are mortals, or whether the first-born includes both spirits and elves and the second-born are dwarves or men.”

“The Chant says men, but I agree that this may have become corrupted,” said Dorian, frowning.

“The Dalish stories that I know suggested that the first of the second-born was Elgar’nan, born of the earth and sun. The Maker’s golden throne suggests an alignment with the sun, and in mosaics of Fen’Harel he is depicted underneath concentric circles: sun… or orb? I don’t know. But the Chant suggests that the second-born were created later. Following what appears to be a poetic description of the construction of the Veil – _by My Will alone is Balance sundered,_ in Threnodies 5:4 – the Maker makes men in verse 5.”

“And the elven magisters adapted to the post-Veil world by becoming envious of humans, and we in turn then find ourselves, millennia on, trampling on the vestiges of Arlathan and taking credit for it all.”

“There’s no need to hate yourself for it. You weren’t there. You didn’t create the Veil.”

“You do realise that with my father’s death, I now own slaves,” sighed Dorian. “ _Elven_ slaves. I can’t believe I agreed to take you with me. There are some things that you shouldn’t have to see.”

“Not paying attention to a problem only makes it worse,” said Virla. “You might even find my presence helpful, _falon_. What was it Bull said? Rebuild their confidence, get rid of old propaganda.”

Dorian hummed gently. “We’ll need to be careful.”

“That’s just what Leliana said. And she is planning to extend the Chantry priesthood to men and women of all races, and remove the restrictions for celibacy. Carefulness isn’t mutually exclusive with change.”

“She’s right. Zevran will be pleased. Do you remember when we took him to that party in Val Royeaux?”

“Of course she is, and yes, he will be, and yes we must be too. Spirits – and ravens – are always listening.”

  
  
  



	45. Necessity and free twill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will.” – Thomas Carlyle
> 
> Or: where there’s a twill, there’s a way. An Imperial Highway, in this case. Virla crosses the board.

Embarking at Cumberland, they’d gone straight to the dwarven quarter and the largest inn, _The Diamond Lass_. In the morning they would meet with Charter’s contact for the caravan to take them north. Virla had been determined to take the land route, despite the scorching summer heat. Besides avoiding the twin evils of Dorian’s aversion to the sea and Qunari dreadnoughts patrolling off Par Vollen, she could see more of Tevinter, and practise one-armed magic along the way. Nevarra was an added bonus.

She looked out through their room’s only window, keeping her dark hood over her ears. Preparations for this trip had included procuring full Tevinter dress and dyeing her hair blonde. By the time they arrived in Minrathous both hood and hair could hide her ears. A shame she didn’t tan that easily… but any observers who still recognised the Dalish redhead Herald of Andraste would be worth tracking in turn. The disguise came with a new name, Vita. _Best not to disclose a surname,_ had said Dorian. _Keep them guessing._

He lounged back against the silken pillows of the larger bed, dwarven-made, and raised a crystal glass, kept cool by runes. “To a fine Sun Blonde, and the end of civilisation. Camping all the way to Vol Dorma.”

Virla – no, _Vita_ – threw him a sharp-edged smile. “To the gates of Minrathous itself; singing, to the lands of Tevinter. Have you been in Cumberland before? Is that the College of Magi I can see?”

“The massive upturned golden dish with a spike in it? Yes, that’s the Sun Dome. Gaudy, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and closed the shutters on the view, pushing her hood back down. “I knew the city was three times the size of Denerim, but it’s another thing to see it. When we passed the main necropolis… Cole and Cassandra were right about the smell of sunflowers. And the singing. Statues, tombs, grey-robed Mortalitasi. Do you think Vitus Fabria was correct, that at death our souls displace a Fade spirit?”

Dorian poured her out a glass of Sun Blonde Vint, softly sparkling in the firelight. He frowned. “Most of my fellow countrymen think such beliefs barbaric. But in another world I could see myself becoming quite the necromancer. I’ve always been rather taken by the idea that the Maker’s first children aid the second. It has a pleasing symmetry about it. Death thins the Veil. Everyone accepts that. Small tears heal over time.”

Virla nodded, thinking of Solas’ frescoes. _There is a perfection in symmetry which calms me,_ he had said.

“There’s a possible contrapositive corollary of that,” continued Dorian, warming to the theme. “If the Veil can heal itself, can it grow stronger – thicker? – over time? And if so, in places where there’s been no death, and if the Mortalitasi are correct, does that mean it’s less possible to die? And if it _were_ some kind of tit-for-tat exchange, what happens as the population grows? _All things in this world are finite._ ”

“ _What one man gains, another has lost._ Transfigurations 1, the sermons of Andraste. The elven and dwarven populations aren’t growing. Humans are, I assume. No idea about Qunari.”

“There are vastly more humans in Thedas, eight or nine tenths of the…” Dorian stopped, his brows drawn together in perplexity. “I’m missing something. What is it, Virla?”

“ _Vita_. We’d better start practising.” She had switched into a Tevene accent, modelled on Krem, and grinned as Dorian rolled his eyes. “ _Fenhedis,_ Pavus. I’ll only get better at the accent if you let me do it.”

“It’s _Venhedis_ not _Fenedhis,_ for a start. Try _kaffas_ instead. Though well-bred Tevinter ladies rarely swear.”

Vita sat down on the large stuffed chair as he had taught her, hands – _hand_ – laid in her lap and eyes cast down, ankles crossed. The robes were fuller than she was used to, similar to Orlesian dress, but blacker. She focused to bring into life the illusion of a golden hand, crossed demurely over her right one.

Dorian blinked, forgetting the problems of overpopulation. “I see you _have_ been practising already. A veritable gold-and-ebon queen. That’ll set the cat among the ravens.”

“An arm’s more complex than a spirit blade, but the principle appears to be the same. I can’t yet move the fingers separately, but it works fine as a fist, or something to conjure the blade out from.”

“A fist. I see. Have you punched a bear yet?”

 _Poor Dirthamen._ “I’ll leave that to Cassandra. I had a go at fighting wolves with hunters from my clan.”

He filled his glass again, and lay back, smirking. “Wolves? Therapy, or to keep them off the sacred halla?”

“A bit of both. I’m still learning which spells I can cast one-handed, or channel differently. Energy barrage is fine, chain lightning’s still erratic, immolate’s trickier. Obviously I can’t cast aegis or mark of the...”

Heavy footsteps (two pairs) came along the outer corridor, and they both fell silent, listening. After a pause of half a minute, a quiet knock sounded at the door, three quick raps followed by two slow ones – Charter’s current signal – and Dorian levered himself off the bed to unlock the door.

It opened to disclose Rector, his everyman’s Fereldan face looking more than usually pale above the black Tevinter robes, and, behind him, the thickset, jolly features of Trader Helsdim, covered in his usual furs and warpaint. Dorian stood back, permitting himself a shudder at the ripe stench of the Avvar man, and closed and locked the door again once they were in the room.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, sers?” he asked, leaning with his back against the door.

Rector bowed carefully to Virla, who smiled and remained seated, the golden hand no longer visible. “Venatori tracked us here, your Worship. We should leave now rather than wait till morning.”

Helsdim crouched down by the fire, staring into it. “Tevinter is not the True Threat,” he intoned, twisting his head to look at Virla. “For in their Ancient Alliance with the Moon Men they may yet defeat the Snake Kings of the Earth, the Ones that Shift and Infiltrate the Land in preparation for their Great Rising.”

Dorian preserved a valiant silence, though he made a face at Virla behind the agents’ backs. She could read what he was thinking: _we have to share a caravan with **him**? Maker preserve us._

“Seven times seventy men of stone immense,” responded Virla, with a wink at Dorian. “First among the Old Gods was Silence. Thank you for your prompt action, Rector. We will allow Magister Pavus to finish his glass of wine and regret the approaching loss of civilisation. Helsdim, would you be so kind as to take our trunks down to the wagons, and we will join you in a quarter of an hour? What are we trading?”

“Draperies and woven cloth, your Worship,” said Rector. “Avvar twill and Orlesian silk brocades.”

“Very good. From now on you will call me Vita, or my Lady. Dorian and Helsdim are themselves, and Rector, you are Quintis for the duration of our stay, as detailed in Charter’s briefings.”

Helsdim hefted the first trunk on his shoulder, and Dorian let him out. One glimpse of the Nevarran sunset shining on the golden dome among the mausoleums, a final gulp of wine, and they were heading north.

****

Eighth chapter, twelfth line. “Crockery,” she said, with a gentle smile for Fen’sulevin. If he – _it_ – truly did report to Solas, it would not take her lover long to crack the code, if he’d a mind to. _I will never forget you._

Great trees grew around them, leaving her guardian wolf outside, frozen in time as Caritas appeared.

“How are you doing, Virla?” she asked. “Are you in Nevarra yet? Now that the mark is gone I can’t watch you any more – I can only see events close to Skyhold. A pity: I’d always wanted to see Nevarra.”

They sat down on the soft grass, bright green under a pale green sky. “I’ve seen a lot of the countryside, but less of Cumberland than I’d hoped – we had to leave in a hurry. Currently I’m sleeping in a wagon in a bed of Avvar twill, yellow as the inside of an egg. Helsdim snores and Dorian is whining. Rector cheers them both with games of cards. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Charter chose him well for this.”

Caritas laughed. “I don’t even know what Rector looks like. Was he the one who first spotted the Executors’ markings, the downwards-pointing triangle with two wavy lines through it?”

“The marks chalked at nearly every Inquisition outpost? Yes, that’s right. On behalf of powers across the sea, but we ruled out the Qunari. What was it they said to Leliana? _Our intention is to watch, and we have seen enough… for the moment, we are not your enemy._ Rector is the ideal agent: eminently forgettable.”

“Executors of whose Will, though? Someone who died. Andraste? Mythal? Something gone Beyond?”

“Don’t,” groaned Virla. “I’ve had enough of that from Helsdim. We know too little of them to guess.”

She lay down, red-haired, both hands real in memory, and whole. A faintly glowing scar ran across her left hand: the way the Anchor had looked when quiescent. They talked of the Minanter River she’d just crossed: its rising in the eastern Hunterhorns where Kal-Sharok lay buried deep below the earth; its path through Hunter Fell, Nevarra City, Tantervale and Starkhaven; its delta in the Rialto Bay at Wycome.

“Do you miss your clan?” asked Caritas. “Your birth clan, I should say.”

Virla sighed. “You speak as if I should remember it. Sometimes I do, and then… it hurts, just for a moment, not to see them any more. Deshanna sends occasional letters. It makes me… happy, to see her leading more than just a city. The weeks I’ve spent with Clan Al’var feel more real. How is Hawen getting on?”

“They keep the halla penned up by the stables, with the aravels where the merchants used to keep their stands. There’s only a few mounts kept there now, and they don’t seem to mind the halla. Desjardins has explained how Skyhold’s being run, and what they can make use of, and left them mostly alone, which I think suits both sides fine. But Harding’s making friends with Hawen – she treats him with the same respect she treated you or Leliana, and Hawen seems to have known of her through Loranil’s reports.”

“Hah, yes… Fen’Harel and the Qunari weren’t the only ones who managed to place spies within my ranks. At least Hawen knew what he was getting into when he offered me the chance to be his First.”

“He spends an hour each day within the library, though he mostly takes the books outside to read, or in the aravel. The day after he arrived he went to see the fresco for himself. Desjardins uses Josephine’s old desk, not yours, so it was empty. Until Banon wandered in and found him reciting a Dalish prayer.”

Virla rolled on to her side and looked up at Caritas in surprise. “Hawen was praying in the rotunda?”

“For your safety, from the little that I could translate. He cares about you, Virla. And the fresco is an incredible work of art, enough to move a simple man to prayer.”

“Or a complex one. I would… find it easier to appreciate it if we hadn’t lived its story. It’s like my heart laid bare in paint and his laid bare in runes below. I wish I knew what he had planned.”

****

They talked for a little more, as usual, before Caritas dissolved the wall of trees and left her in the clearing.

Virla was flowing once more in dream time. Fen’sulevin yawned sleepily, fennec wolf stretching out to her right. She was about to walk over and exchange some quiet words with him – thank him for his help in keeping up her strength when practising the adjustments to her fighting style…

…when she felt something walking in the Fade beside her. No, not something. Someone.

 _Another_ wolf was watching her, this one larger, more masculine, more dominant.

Not a six-eyed monster, but an alpha male, soft silver coated.

She’d know that sad gaze anywhere, his muscles tensed to flee, the head that turned to her to watch.

Solas.

“…Solas?”

She’d thought he’d been close by her side, but he was there, among the trees. Virla ran towards him, half-tripping over elven robes, a joyous smile upon her lips. She could almost taste his aura, almost feel…

But the trees were retreating, taking Solas with them. Her arms reached out, but could not span the endless distance willing itself between them.

“Is this your dream, or mine?” she called, still running hard. “Please, _vhenan_ , please stop it. _Venavis!_ ”

The wolf wasn’t even running as she ran towards, but never reaching, him. Just gazing, sadly, as if he were not truly there. As if he could not see her. Was he blind and deaf? Was this some mirage?

After several minutes of frustrated cries and pleading, she turned back to Fen’sulevin. It looked sad, but in a different way, as if it felt the pain she felt right now and not the pain of immortal love wrought wrong.

It stretched up into the form of an elvhen man, more like Abelas than Solas, and opened up its arms to hold her close. It was simpler just to think of it as him, when he took this form. A small act of defiance, a tiny speck of stardust not consumed by sun. Was it blasphemy to remember a Qunari baker, an aching heart like a pinch of dusted sugar, a secret in a Dalish hearthcake? _Rebel, and we will change the rules._

“I miss him too,” he said, from above the gentle hug. “We all do. I remember now it was different once.”

Frustrated rage gnawed at her heart. “Why would he not let me reach him, go with him?”

“I’m not good at knowing things, Virlath. I just know that he wants you to be safe.”

“Why is it not my choice? He wanted to give me the choice to run away from him, not to be with him until I knew his history, why can’t he let me have the choice to decide if I go with him?”

“He told you that,” was the solemn answer. “Do you really want to remember that again?”

“I suppose not. _I would not have you see what I become._ Does he really think uncertainty is better?”

“I don’t know… perhaps?” said Fen’sulevin. “The priests in Dirthamen’s temple knew everything, but surrendered to Despair. Maybe if you don’t know then there’s hope?”

Virla looked up at him, unshed tears glittering on her eyelashes. “For a spirit who’s not good at knowing things, that was remarkably helpful, _‘ma falon_. _Ma serannas, lethallin._ ”

Had Fen’sulevin ever smiled before? She couldn’t remember if he had, but something flickered across his face and through the Fade: a memory of trees, of smiles and laughter, _emma enasal_. A memory of hope.

“We’re going through the Silent Plains soon,” she continued, loath to wake. Not Solas’ arms, but still… a comfort rarely offered, or accepted. “I’m glad to have your company. We must watch out for demons.”

  
  
  



	46. Rose in silk brocade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rose is a [fairy chess](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fairy_chess) piece that can make a series of knight moves in one turn: a circular nightrider. Many creatures make silk: bees, wasps, mayflies… and spiders.

“And all around them echoed a vast Silence,” quoted Dorian, shivering as he urged his black mare on.

 _Beneath their feet, the footsteps of the Maker,_ thought Virla. The cloth across her nose and mouth formed an impediment to talking, but in this case she was glad. While Helsdim slept, she’d taken the reins, with Rector riding point and Dorian beside her. Indigo silk fluttered against her god-kissed lips, unmarked, unmarketed. Unscorched by Dumat’s fiery breath. Hers, for now, like thoughts.

The crumbling marbled flagstones ebbed and flowed beneath the horses’ hooves, the wagon jolting as fast as she and they could bear it. The Imperial Highway here was raised up on great pillars, reminding her of Emprise du Lion, but there that resemblance ended: gritty sand instead of pure white ice and snow. Black sky streaked with crimson in the day and green at night; drought, rot, demons pressing on the Veil… it was indeed _a terrible and lonely place; a drear and dying land._

She remembered Solas by the sulphurous pits of the Western Approach, coughing as hard as anyone. That land, like this, was a monument to the stubbornness of Wardens, and their desperation. Harder to believe in Fen’Harel’s goodness in this light-forsaken place, or forget the Dalish fable of the courser’s hound. What would she have done if she had caught the wolf, bite him by the tail until he howled the truth, entire?

No. In a contest of wills with Solas in the Fade, she could not hope to prevail, and she did not want to fight. Hope lay hidden in his own heart. They said _felicidus aria_ was probably extinct, but she’d believe it dwelled somewhere in these blighted heartlands.

At the heart of the dust, yet not consumed by it: a living, breathing rose.

****

Two days passed, stopping only for the necessary breaks to rest or change round the horses, or to kill the demons and giant spiders that attacked them from the Fade. Occasional corpses lay scattered along the Highway, or in the sand below: mostly escaped slaves desperate to get out of Tevinter, where enough remained to tell. Somewhere behind them were Venatori. Did their hearts still burn for vengeance?

Virla had tried not to think of Fen’Harel, Dumat or demons, but of moments of joy and hope, seeds thrown in the dusty air. Sitting with the wagon’s reins in hand was not unlike driving an aravel, and a Dalish travelling song came to mind, that she might have heard as a child going to her first Arlathvhen. 

> _A thousand miles beneath the wheels, sails against the sky._  
>  _Swifter than a dragon’s flight, the People are passing by._
> 
> _The rein you must hold in your left hand; in the right hand your dagger or bow._  
>  _If the shemlen should strike on your journey – send them to Falon’Din below._
> 
> _The path we beat is the path that we walked to flee the Tevinter slums._  
>  _Now we fly on wheels and wings and hoofbeats are our drums._

Horses not hallas, no sails, and now for her a right hand only, but slums were still real enough. The elves’ Long Walk south to Halamshiral had been scarcely forty years after Dumat’s death, along this very route. She remembered Hawke’s tales as a Fereldan refugee in Kirkwall, and tried to imagine a Blight that lasted two hundred years instead of one.  _The dragon died and rose again, until AT LAST the beast was slain._

Odd that the Dalish song talked of Falon’Din, not Fen’Harel. _The further the Dalish spread, the further their stories branch and grow._ A confusion of “son” and “sun”, you’d think, but the elven words were different: the sun as Elgara, the _place of spirits_. How far did the Fade reach into the Earth? Virla tried to remember how the Wellspring had felt, with its trees of dragonthorn and Titan’s glowing heart, now sealed by stone and magic. She hoped the Sha-Brytol still protected its lyrium veins from exposure to the darkspawn taint.

Crimson stained the sky: true dawn lay above. Virla remembered Varric talking about the Primeval Thaig that he and Bartrand found with Hawke: its branching red lyrium veins and Claw of Dumat. A corrupted Titan was a truly terrifying thought, for anyone who’d fought with behemoths and horrors. _What if…_

She looped the reins around her wrist and leaned her head down far enough for her fingers to tug the silk away, to allow her to call Dorian, discoursing on his favourite wines to Rector. “Dorian?”

He slowed his mare to ride level with her. “Yes, my dear? Do you need me to take over?”

“No, only to listen. Riding’s just as hard, particularly with a mount that isn’t used to me. Mi’nan would have been too recognisable. Something just occurred to me. In that future Redcliffe, we saw that the stone was tainted. Now, the Titan whose heart we saw beneath the Deep Roads was woken by the Breach. Was the Veil created as a way to keep them asleep? To slow or stop the spread of corruption?”

He’d retrieved a small flask of ale, which he put to her lips to drink. They were getting good at this, no drops spilled, despite the jolting of the wagon over marble slabs. “Mythal gives you drams, my Lady Vita.”

“Very funny,” she retorted, as he took the flask away. “Though you’re right that _that_ may be connected. _Ir sa tel’nal, Mythal las ma theneras. Da’durgen’lin, banal malas elgara._ Never yours the sun. It might mean dwarves or darkspawn. Mythal giving them dreams could be connecting dwarves to the Fade, or darkspawn to a Calling. Cole told me once: _He broke the dreams to keep the old dreams from waking._ ”

Dorian finished drinking, returned the flask to its holster, and frowned. “Mythal statues all have dragon wings. I remember Solas telling me that the humans of ancient times took much from the elves. Do you think that our Old Gods were elven Evanuris? Their gender and numbers don’t match: all high dragons being female, but every Old God but Razikale is remembered as male. Mythal would have to be Razikale.”

Virla shrugged. “There’s no evidence in lore for it, but if the existence of the Titans could be kept hidden… Let’s hold on that for now. What we do know from Frederic’s investigations is that dragons are more resistant to the Blight. An Archdemon’s song acts as a beacon for darkspawn, just as my mark was a beacon for demons. Are the Tevinter Old Gods protecting all of us from a worse disaster, by keeping the blight away from Titans, or even from something greater, from the dwarven Stone itself?”

“Well, that would potentially paint the Imperium in a prettier light, if it were true.” Dorian gripped the reins tighter, as if to steer a better course for Tevinter. “Remarkably self-sacrificing of them, though. Are dragons known for altruism? Or are you thinking of Fen’Harel as trickster, forcing them to play that role?”

“Solas was incensed about the Wardens’ plans to kill the remaining two Archdemons. He must have a stake in their remaining underground. In Redcliffe, when we found him, he told us that _that_ world…”

“…was an abomination. But if you take that literally, there would have to be a demon involved…”

“…and it would also mean that the earth is actually a living being, with its own spirit. The Stone is _real._ ”

Dorian shifted in his saddle, looking at the endless sand. “Dwarves believe that, certainly. I recall when we found Renn’s comrades, slaughtered by darkspawn. Wouldn’t let them be buried lest they weaken her.”

“Yes, we built a pyre for them instead,” sighed Virla. “I told you we found those strange journal entries from Valta: now there’s _another_ mystery, how they got to us. Did Titans have agents in our ranks as well?”

“What, Sha-Brytol just popping up through the flagstones? Oops, I fell into the Skyhold! Blue lyrium graffiti mysteriously appearing on the walls? I hardly think so. Was there anything useful in the journal?”

Skyhold _was_ in the Frostbacks, like Korth’s stronghold Belenas. Better to think that than that Dagna was involved. She closed her eyes, and brought her friend the Shaper’s journal pages back to memory.

“There was something which might help. Valta’s journal read: “Its blood now flows through me, and its song fills the gaps in our history. I close my eyes and see glimpses of the world that was, before everything changed and the dwarven race broke in two. Something caused the Titans to fall, and the fate of my people fell with them. The Titan wants me to know. No, more than that. It wants me to understand. There is a loneliness to its song.”” Virla paused, and added, softly, “I wish I knew what happened to her.”

“I don’t know if we should have left her there or not,” said Dorian. “Though it _did_ stop the earthquakes.”

“That, and it would have been hard to deny her the choice. She knew more about the Titan than we did.”

“True. So the creation of the Veil split the dwarves, in a manner not at all clear, and records held by the Shaperate have likely been erased. Try another tack. What kind of demon is linked to the Blight?”

“Well, for one, the Nightmare demon we encountered in the Fade. Leliana showed me a letter found in the Chantry archives, by a senior enchanter, who believed that the only universal fear in Thedas was a fear of the Blight and that therefore any powerful, intelligent fear demon would focus in on that.”

Dorian looked at her sharply, as if he had been about to say something, then decided not to. His gaze swept around the blighted lands, feeling as she did the fragility of the Veil, the immanence of death.

“Some people say that Fen’Harel is a demon of the Fade. A Dread Wolf. Dread is fear,” said Virla, quietly.

“Do we really have to do this here?” said Dorian, his voice pitched higher than normal.

“If I can face it, so can you. Exaltations 7. The Hunt of the Fell Wolf ballad. The mural in the Darvaarad.”

“In a minute I’m going to get that wooden duck on wheels that Cole put in my trunk,” he warned.

She laughed, mirthlessly, but her eyes softened. “Get it in a minute, then, I’m nearly done. Do you remember Solas in Emprise du Lion? He was simultaneously terrified of the red lyrium and obsessed with understanding it. You didn’t see him in the Western Approach. _The Blight is not something one smugly outsmarts. The Blight is the real problem. The fools who first unleashed the Blight upon this world thought they were unlocking ultimate power_. It’s possible he didn’t mean the Magisters Sidereal in 800TE.”

“Reassuring as it is to hear somebody from outside the Imperium – _mirthadra elvhen,_ no less! – admit that we were _not_ responsible, or at least not _solely_ responsible, we’ve always believed the darkspawn were around before the First Blight. Like that letter that we found in Heidrun Thaig to Merchant Levnog. That could date to 25TE. Linked to King Orseck Garal’s expedition and movement of the capital to Orzammar. Exactly a thousand years before Andraste’s death and over seven hundred years before the First Blight.”

“Breaching the Veil by killing many thousands of slaves _was_ horrific. That must have woken Titans then as well. Maybe the darkspawn _had_ been isolated, locked away somehow, but earthquakes caused by Titans allowed them into the Deep Roads. Some in 25TE and the bulk of the horde in 800TE.” Virla breathed in dust and coughed. “We’ll have to change the horses soon. Can you bear to hear me out before we stop?”

“If we limit the discussion of fear demons, yes. We both have to sleep and not wake up with tentacles.”

“And… that made it so much better. Anyway. We agreed the Veil was created before -1905TE, the start of human history. When in Tevinter, use Tevinter dating. One last thing. Did you ever uncover why Alexius told the Magisterium five years ago that the Circle of Minrathous is more than ten thousand years old?”

“When human history is barely four thousand years? Alexius was not entirely sane, you know. This is the point where I should get the duck and also that mug that reads _five minutes here is fifteen minutes there_.”

This time her laugh was genuine, and Rector looked back, briefly, smiling. They’d been speaking in low tones so he couldn’t hear – even with one of Leliana’s most trusted agents, it still paid to be careful.

From the wagon, Helsdim kept on snoring, even when they stopped to change the horses.

****

They’d woken up the Avvar man eventually, to ride alongside Rector on the wagon, letting Dorian take point. Virla curled up in the back, on a bed of straw and Avvar cotton, hidden from them all by bales of silk and twill, leather-wrapped and tied with twine, beside their trunks. Hides were secured across the top to keep the grit and sand out, twanging when the wagon bounced too hard. They smelled worse and worse each hour they drove north, absorbing the foul decaying scents. She was reminded of the Fallow Mire.

_Ah, Solas… it was so much simpler then, when I scarcely knew you._

She was exhausted, and as soon as she laid her head against the scent-soaked silken pillow, she…

****

Virla was drifting, into the landscape, split by the Veil and broken in two. Humans were coming, elves weren’t immortal – quickening, dying – out of the blue. Dwarves were _durgen’len_ , children of Stone and… what was _durgen’lin_ , blood of the Stone? Bloody corruption, darkspawn blood is black. Too many peoples falling or fallen, too many slaves and too many fears. How to escape the Nightmare, the terrors?

If Solas with his age and wisdom – and yes, _pride_ – couldn’t see a way to cure the Blight, how could an unanchored, one-armed girl hope to stumble upon it?

 _I never should have come north,_ she thought. _What good will it do if I see Tevinter, see Minrathous? What’s the point in freeing twenty or a hundred slaves, if a million still are chained?_

Something was rattling her chains, an irritation that soon led her to Despair. She killed the demon.

The landscape clarified into forest. She imagined each tree as a Dalish ancestor: all that they had learned, all they had passed on, still flying on wheels and wings, trees parting by magic in memory of ancient paths. Caritas had taught her more of what she could remember, now that she’d lost her connection to her own world and their ancient texts of Thedas. Isseya’s diary told of griffons pulling aravels in evacuation from the Fourth Blight and those same griffons’ extinction – no, their _almost-_ extinction. For the chicks were hidden in the Red Bride’s Shrine, protected by a dragon, a globe of force and lyrium. And time.

The taint is in the blood, but the taint is _not_ the blood itself. The griffons believed that their taint was a disease, and through magic it became one, became infectious. Instead of Tevinter, should she go to Weisshaupt? News from there suggested chaos, what little there was of it, but she might learn more.

_Do I have to understand it **all** to get it right? _

She was lying on a bed of grass, Fen’sulevin curled up by a tree and watching. For demons, and over her. Its ears were pricked up, as if listening… another demon near, perhaps?

Virla stood up, and looked around the forest. Something was not quite right. No wolf in sight, but at the edge of vision something black. The farther trees began to burn, dark flames dancing on their branches…

_That’s not me doing that._

Fen’sulevin howled in fear.

_What is…_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dalish travelling song comes from World of Thedas, Book 2, page 215. It's called "Passing By" and the book has six verses, of which I've taken three.


	47. Imperial vestments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imperial chess is played on a 12x12 board. Empresses and queens can capture other pieces; princesses can only _be_ captured. The Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf, not even for a Herald who once saw herself as an elven princess before an Empress’ throne. Perhaps _especially_ not for her…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tevinter sections, starting here, contain various possible triggers of rape/non-con and graphic violence, none of which involve Lavellan/Solas as a pairing. It’s hard to talk about slavery in Tevinter without touching on rape: much like blood magic being ubiquitous in private even when abhorred in public, it’s safe to assume that elven servants are being abused by their masters behind closed doors on a regular basis. Given this is a story about desire and love, I think this chapter’s necessary, even its violence.

Slowly, Virla realised she _was_ awake. The wagon must have stopped, because she couldn’t hear the horses’ hooves. There was no sound from the others, just the faint rushing of water somewhere near.

The ground _was_ moving, though: shaking and tipping and trembling.

 _Fenedhis. My head hurts._ Her neck was stiff, and she tried to put up a hand to massage it.

She couldn’t. Something was constraining her wrist against her thigh. Her skin felt wet and clammy.

A lingering voice of sanity whispered, before it sank back down into the depths: _rage and disorientation? Confusion grenade, maybe a miasmic flask for stun. Spirit damage when it wears off, try not to sleep…_

Virla’s eyes snapped open. _I want to kill whoever did this._

It was still dark, but no longer the Silent Plains: stars shone overhead, beautiful and useless. With a painful effort she could move her head enough to see the dim outline of the riverbanks on either side. _Shit._

Struggling only confirmed the presence of more straps and drenched her in freezing water. She imagined flame springing to her hands, to burn the straps away before they got completely waterlogged. But there was only raging void where flame should have been. _Magebane too? Someone **really** had it in for me. _

Well, at least she couldn’t set fire to herself with rage. Where was Varric when you needed him?

_So, no shit, there I was, down to my vest and smallclothes, tied to some rotting piece of wood – smelling of really old cabbage, by the way – and drifting down some river in the ass-end of Tevinter._

_That was when I heard the waterfall._

Virla screamed for help.

****

The raft had come to rest against something: a build-up of weeds and rocks, perhaps? Her neck had lost some of its stiffness, enough to turn her head and see the waterfall up and to her left, another river joining hers. Pale yellow willows observed her, lit by moonlight. _How long does magebane last?_

She tried to remember the ingredients from lessons back with Clan Lavellan: lyrium; lifestone rocks mined from near lyrium and corrupted by the darkspawn taint; and herbs such as heatherum and foxite, once common in Ferelden before the Blight, now very rare. When she’d gone to the Conclave she’d soon learnt that poisoners in the south now used blood lotus as a base, and spider glands instead of lifestone rocks. Spider or wyvern glands made runes to fight dragons; dragon blood against demons; revenant or arcane horror hearts to fight darkspawn or horrors; and red lyrium to fight humans, beasts and animals.

_Beasts against dragons; dragons against demons; demons against darkspawn; darkspawn against beasts. Creation against primal; primal against spirit; spirit against entropy; entropy against creation. Water against earth; earth against air; air against fire; fire against water. Like some stupid cosmic Wicked Grace: spring beats winter… life forms out of stone, lightning pulls power from the air; death suffocates…_

Her mind was racing, followed weakly by her pulse. _Stop it. This won’t help. You have to **do**_ _something._

Virla tried to breathe to counteract the shivering. If she couldn’t get off the raft, she’d surely die of cold. Without her mana she couldn’t reach the Fade; couldn’t even try to conjure an illusion of a second hand, far less use it; couldn’t set fire to the straps; couldn’t freeze the water so she could try to slide the raft across to shore; couldn’t… well, electricity was a _terrible_ idea…

It must be _terrible_ to be entombed in stone. She’d always tried to kill her foes as fast as possible.

Several times Virla pressed her hand into the side of her leg to try to slide it through the wrist strap. Her efforts only succeeded in rubbing her own skin raw around her wrist and thigh. She cursed whoever set her up like this. It had all the markings of an assassination – expensive poisons, untraceable assailant. _Had they killed Dorian as well? Helsdim? Rector?_ Her shoulders pressed back against the cold, damp wood, and icy water flooded over the raft again, soaking through her vest and bindings. She caught a glimpse of the moon, low in the sky, behind her head. _Are you still **spying** on me, Fen’Harel? _

Bitterness rose like bile within her throat. “Help! Is anyone… there?” she screamed.

****

After a few minutes, something moved within the forest. No, _two_ somethings. Two men, both humans.

“Hey, look what the river brought,” smirked the dark-haired man, as they emerged from the trees. For a moment in the pale dawn light she had thought him Dorian. Sadly, he looked neither handsome nor kind.

They were about thirty feet away, well within range of spells had she but had her magic. Neither made an immediate move to wade into the water and swim out to her. Granted, it _was_ freezing, but…

Virla wondered, briefly, how she looked to them, if she _didn’t_ look like someone they should rescue. Did they suspect she was a mage? Possessed? Her mana was a poisoned well, her flesh looked pale.

“Any ch… chance you could get me out of this, sers?” she pleaded, trying to sound unthreatening.  

The blond man frowned at his companion. “Damaged goods, Tulios. Doubt Danzig will be interested.”

“Nice tits, though,” said Tulios. “Hey, knife-ear, here’s the deal. We get you out of there, you give me and Gaj here a quick one. Get us all warmed up again before we head downriver.”

 _Rage would warm us all up nicely._ “I’m a virgin,” she snapped back. “Don’t they fetch a higher price?”

His grin grew wide. “Andraste’s thighs, at your age? A likely story. Hey, Gaj, where are you going?”

“Back to camp. I don’t like the look of this one. Pale, like a corpse. Doubt she’ll survive the journey. And Danzig will kill you if he finds out that you’ve fucked a virgin. Even one with one arm.”

“Aww, come on. Neither of us have had any luck since Kirkwall. This one looks just ripe for it. Who’s to tell Danzig? He’s not back till this evening.”

Gaj shrugged, and turned around, pulling a dagger from his belt as he unbuckled it. “What’s your name?”

“Vita,” said the Herald of Andraste.

****

The men had stripped their cloaks and boots and trousers off and waded in. They simply pulled the plank towards the bank, the water only reaching to their thighs. Tulios leered down at her, and she was reminded horribly of Erimond. _I beheaded someone just like you,_ she thought.

Gaj knelt down by her feet and cut the strap around her ankles. Her legs were too chilled to move.

Tulios’ hands pushed her vest up greedily, and ran his hands over her icy breasts. She shuddered at their warmth, and hated herself for it. “Shall we do the one around your neck as well, or leave it there?”

“Better not risk her choking,” muttered Gaj. He moved round Tulios and cut that strap as well. “Take off your clothes, you’ll freeze to death if you don’t,” he ordered.

She wanted to reply. Her teeth were chattering, and she still couldn’t feel her mana. Or her feet. Maybe she wouldn’t feel it when they…

“Void take you,” she hissed, as Gaj’s dagger sliced down the side of her vest and bindings, and Tulios hungrily pulled away the sodden cloth, to rub his fingers between her legs. “Stop that!”

“You’re wet,” said Tulios, licking his lips. “Let’s see how good that clever mouth of yours is.”

“Let’s get among the trees,” said Gaj, grabbing Tulios’ shoulder. “In case Danzig comes back early.”

Gaj pulled her to her feet and grabbed his cloak, to clasp it around her in an all-too-brief moment of humanity. The cloak fell to mid-thigh, and for a moment she felt like a person once again, and not a thing. Though they hadn’t cut the strap around her wrist and thigh. It made it hard to regain her balance as she stumbled, despite Gaj’s hard clasp around her upper arm.

She wondered which direction she could run, if they gave her chance. Could she keep them talking until the magebane wore off? Grab the dagger Gaj had stuffed back in his belt? With what hand, though?

They stopped in a small clearing, incongruous birds singing, willows yellow in the faintest light of dawn. Tulios pushed her roughly in the middle of her back, as Gaj let go, a crude but effective way of forcing her to her knees. The blond leant against a tree, apparently content to watch.

“Let’s try that clever mouth, knife-ear,” sneered Tulios, untying his trousers once again. His cock swung free, golden-brown and hard, and Virla grimaced at it. At least it didn’t look too big.

 _Clever mouth, knife ear. Clever mouth, knife…_  

She faked a giggle, cold rivulets of sweat running down her back. “Andraste,” she swore. _City elf._ “I’ve never seen a shemlen cock. It’s very big,” she lied, remembering a captain on an Empress’ bed.

Tulios looked pleased, but Gaj snorted. “Call that big? Take a look at this.”

He walked over, grinning. As he untied his trousers and Tulios’ face darkened in contempt, she seized her chance and leant forward. She closed her teeth around the dagger’s hilt and yanked it free from the belt. A quick thrust of her head drove the dagger deep beside Gaj’s exposed groin, and he stumbled back, screaming, blood spurting out across her face, the dagger she still clamped her teeth around, and his… _her_ cloak. She’d dreamed enough times that she was a dragon, fighting demons with her teeth and claws. It felt almost like second nature now.

A sharp boot to her head, and Tulios was reaching for the dagger. With careful timing Virla jerked her head and thrust the dagger straight through his hand. _Thank Bull for all those lessons with the Chargers._

She ignored their screams, scrambled to her feet and began to run.

****

At first she simply ran at random, bare feet dancing among the trees, heart pumping like a berserker warrior, circulation returning to her limbs. She’d rather not have lost the dagger, but there would not have been a second chance to take them by surprise. The clasp of the cloak fell back against her neck, and she had no hand free to adjust it as she fled. Sounds of pursuit grew fainter – she doubted that the slavers were as fit as her, nor as experienced at finding a way in woods.

These woods would not be extensive, if she was still where she thought she was, near tributaries of the river that flowed north into the Nocen Sea at Vyrantium. Erimond had been from there, she thought with a shudder. Perhaps Tulios was indeed some relative. Was the river her best chance, though? She might have drifted quite some way from the Imperial Highway, with who knew how many branching streams upriver, but there surely must be villages downstream. Unfortunately, it would make her easier to track. Maybe if she stayed within the woods but kept the river just in sight, for orientation and fresh water? _At least I know how to survive in forests._

She crouched down in a gap beneath an old tree, still breathing hard, and inspected the strap around her wrist. _Let’s get rid of this, at least._ Some kind of canine leather, most likely wolf, ironically enough. The hollow protected her from sight, and a short search near the tree revealed some elfroot and berries she could chew on, picked with difficulty, and a sharpish heavy stone that she could use to wear away the leather at its weakest point. _Or as a weapon, should I need another._

****

Five hours later, the strap was only halfway worn through – _it must have been a well-fed wolf_ – but she could feel her mana coming back. She wondered what that heavy dose of magebane had cost her assailant, and whether he knew the slavers or either knew the Venatori. She hoped that Dorian remained alive. There was nothing truly valuable inside their wagon: she’d left her sending crystal back at Skyhold, and her wealth was held in various secure locations, with only a minimum kept with them for the journey. So long as Dorian was safe – and Rector, and Helsdim – that was what truly mattered.

 _Not_ “ _the Inquisition”. People._

Virla tried again to cast some fire. A lick of flame danced upon her hand, and she coaxed it into burning on the strap. It was like being twelve again: a slow trickle from the Fade, compared to the bright fine rush of power she was used to. But eventually she burnt away the strap. In lieu of another hand, she rubbed her wrist against the final elfroot leaves, pressed against her thigh, trying to relieve the pain of both.

The berserker rage and strength were fading now, leaving her drained. Should she try to sleep right now? It would be safer to keep watch at nights for real wolves, and face the Fade while she had courage.

She curled up on the ground among the roots as best she could, imagining her ghostly arm relaxed, the good hand tight around the stone, glad for the summer heat. Given what had happened the last time she went to sleep, she thought it would take quite a while for her to relax enough, but…

****

Virla had scarcely stepped into dreamland, her childhood forest, when it emerged from behind a tree.

“Your forest went dark, I couldn’t see you,” said Fen’sulevin, changing seamlessly from a fennec into an elvhen man again. “You seem to be in a different place now. Did time pass while it was dark?”

“Yes,” said Virla, sitting down beside him… it? “Do you think _he_ noticed that, as well? I didn’t see him in the forest last night, but Cole says our hurts connect.”

“He’s very close to you. Didn’t you know?”

“Here in the Fade, or in Thedas? Or in the sense of an emotional entanglement?”

“All of those? I think, at least.” It sighed. “I’m not very good at knowing things.”

“I’ll be back,” she promised, as the forest began to fade.

****

It hadn’t even been a conscious decision to wake up, she thought, just an instinct, a compulsion. _Solas._

What had she expected to see? A hermit, general, god, a silver wolf, the mighty Dread Wolf of the Fade?

_No-one._

But instead, right beside her, there was a bag. An unassuming leather saddlebag, assuming nothing.

And in the bag, on top of food and medicines and clothes, there was a letter, addressed: _V------_

She had to hold it in her teeth to rip the seal open.

  



	48. King's willow waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As pillow words are weaving, and willow waves are leaving – but should I be believing that I am only dreaming?” – Enya, _Anywhere Is_

Virla sat in the hollow of the oak tree, shrouded only in a rough grey woven cloak, and removed the precious roll of parchment from her mouth. That flourish on the letter _V,_ the way he curved it round…

She looked around once more. Butterflies and mayflies drifted in the summer heat, and birds still warbled peacefully, too late in the year for courting. No sign of _him_ , no ripples in the Veil. If he _was_ still here, she couldn’t feel him. Belatedly, she wondered where the stone had gone. She’d had it in her hand; it couldn’t have simply rolled away, yet it was nowhere to be seen.

Her fingers trembled as she unrolled the words he’d left and laid them on the ground. She placed two smaller stones at head and foot to keep the parchment flat, and read: 

> _Vitalia – This letter tenders once more my regrets that my circumstances mean I cannot afford to keep you with me. I hope the skills you have acquired as my scribe will serve you well._
> 
> _Take this letter of introduction to Danzig below the falls tonight. He will convey you to Vyrantium, where Mistress Calpernia, or her representative, will take charge of you. My report of your abilities has enabled me to realise my investment in you at a rate which is both a compliment to you and a solace to me in maintaining my estate._
> 
> _Danzig – Treat her well. Any damages will be deducted from Calpernia’s payment to you. She knows the condition of the merchandise._
> 
> _Solitarios_

She had to read it twice again before the elegant letters stopped dancing on the page and started to make sense. This was… an offer, not an order. For her, a chance to take a risk. _Can you let her? I don’t know._

So… _did_ she trust him? She reached out for the garments in the bag: either way, they’d camouflage her in the forest. Broad strips of white cotton first, to clamp under her arm or thighs while winding round; a longish pale green tunic, slim breeches, and simple, flat Tevinter sandals.

They fitted perfectly, which she knew she should have found disturbing, but somehow… couldn’t. Even the tunic’s half-sleeves were the perfect length to keep her left arm covered, with hardly any fabric hanging loose. She inspected the vials of medicine he’d left: amrita vein, embrium, prophet’s laurel… and lyrium. It took only a bit more faith to drink them all, and she smiled to feel her magic flooding back. Virla looked inside the bag once more, and ate some of the bread and cheese. She pulled the stopper from the flagon, sniffed it, drank the ale. It was still the middle of the day: she’d several hours to decide.

It was easy to accept the gifts. Healing, clothing, feeding… that’s what you do for refugees. But to hand herself over to a slaver, to be pawed and groped and leered at for the next few days, or worse… To go back to Tulios and Gaj, even with the “letter of introduction” that he’d forged…

_Forged. Where **is** that stone?_

Virla rolled the parchment up again, tucking it into the sandals with the flagon and the empty vials back in the bag. With a sudden flash of flame, she burnt the bloodied cloak, and scattered leaves to hide the pile of ash. Then she stepped out of the tree, slinging the bag across her body as she straightened.  

There _was_ a trail: the tiniest fragments of arbor blessing petals, not native to these oak and willow woods, scattered every few metres. _Not unlike following ravens in the Fade_ , she thought. _A cautionary test?_ Ears pricked to Fade and Thedas for disturbances, she ran on, wildly hoping she might catch him still.

****

The trail ended by the river at a cave, where a horse’s hoof-prints led upriver at a gallop. No attempt to hide that trail; he might as well have painted a golden arrow on a tree. So… there was another choice.

On her way she’d glimpsed the slavers’ camp downriver through the trees, and stayed well out of sight. She took the opportunity to wash the last dried blood from face and arms, frowning at her reflection by blood lotus in the water. Still a shock to recognise herself: white-blonde, one-armed, no vallaslin.

The water was stone cold, like him. That letter was a calculated risk, a potent blend to act on her emotions, lyrium on weeping mana. Those hints of sadness, the lead a spy might follow, references to Shartan 9. Signed _Solitarios_ for _the Lonely One_ , a mountain past Vol Dorma that she’d hoped to see, near the coastal city of Asariel. The name Calpernia was new, was she some agent in Vyrantium he’d recruited?

Hawke had said, as Erimond had fled: _Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions. In the end, you are always alone with your actions._ Dorian would be screaming at her now, if he were here: don’t go to the slavers! Hawen would have dragged her back to camp; Cullen, back to Skyhold.

Solas? _Ar lasa mala revas. I’m free to choose._

Drying her face on the spare cloth in the bag that had wrapped the bread and cheese, she ventured into the cave. _No bears. Or spiders._ It would make a better place to hide until tonight, regardless of her decision. At the back, hidden from the mouth, lay a bedroll, and an elven brazier. She shook the bedroll clumsily, and heard the clatter as the stone – _her_ stone – fell on the ground. It was singing softly, sweetly, waiting to be woken with the kiss of veilfire. Alas that he had waited till she fell asleep, and dared no kiss.

Images flickered in front of her eyes: of a man dressed in hooded robes watching fight and flight, emerging from the trees and intercepting her pursuers as she fled. A sense of icy purpose filled her bones as he led them off to follow him instead. His familiar voice whispered: _And when the hunters reached the foot of the solitary hill, they found nothing. The trail of their quarry vanished. Now, re-made and whole, they will not remember. I would not have chosen a cage for you, but it seems you are insistent._

Perhaps it was that gleam of humour at the last that finally made her mind up, for as she lay down, heart fluttering and stomach twisting, void with emptiness, she remembered a campfire in the Hissing Wastes, and Solas’ sudden, hesitating, smile. _People wish to accomplish the truly great things on their own._

And from the Fade that wept in blood and dust below her feet, a Templar’s journal: _I will go. I will smile. But if the dragon statue looks ready to bite, I will strike first. I am not a child, and I will not be afraid._

****

She hadn’t slept then, sick with nerves, and she couldn’t sleep now, in the middle of the night. Not with the iron bars pressed close against her shoulder blades, not with the noise. The slavers were asleep in tents, the horses sleeping peacefully beside the river, unchained from the cage. Danzig had raised his eyebrows at her and the letter, and, without explanation, put her in a small compartment on her own, apart from the four elves who watched incuriously from the other, larger, section. She remembered Krem’s tales of his father selling himself into slavery to save his family, and wondered how common it was for slaves to turn up of their own free will. At least not trusting anyone completely was entirely familiar.

 _Mistress Calpernia._ Well, at least he hadn’t written Madam. She doubted that she had the skills for _that_.

Someone had, though – the only woman in the larger section of the cage, called Faith. She’d worked long years at the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall, until Madam Lusine had turned her out. _Too old for work, she’d said… I had to walk the streets…_ as Faith had explained repeatedly between the bars that separated them, defiant and angry. One of the men – Jawen – had put an arm around her, and whispered something flattering in her ear. It must have been enough to salve her pride, for she’d apparently consented to…

They were still going at it, half an hour later, lewd moans growing louder by the minute, slaps and gasps.

At first (and later, several times) she hadn’t been sure if she should intervene. She could have threatened Jawen with magic through the bars, but from the glimpses she had ventured, Faith seemed willing.

She couldn’t move more than a few feet away, was close enough to smell the scent of sweat and lust, to feel the lurching of the cage, to hear each moan, each gasp as Jawen bit and squeezed and pressed right into Faith. The woman’s hands were braced against the bars right by where Virla was confined, unnecessary clothes discarded. Even though her eyes were tightly shut again, she could not avoid hearing every single one of Faith’s admiring comments on his cock, its length and general fineness, how what he did was satisfying her… the shuddering breaths of their release. Imagination was far worse than knowing what was going on. She pressed her thighs together, head laid on her knees, one arm around them, and – though they had _not_ remembered her, she was forewarned – tried not to think of Tulios’ hands.

Tried not to think of Solas.

She was fighting a losing battle there. Too easy to remember being pressed against _his_ chest, desired, the warmth and heat of love, the swirling power of magic. His heart sunk on an anchor, deep into the world.

_Solas, var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

So much worse to know he’d wanted – and _still_ wanted – her, but had stifled his desires. She wondered once again about their final kiss, and what had broken in him for him to initiate it. 

> _Then in my weakness I essayed a third, though magisters their warnings did impart._  
>  _She broke my binding with a single word, and said this smiling as she clutched my heart:_  
>  _Though love I was, your passion’s changing fire has forged this spirit into cruel Desire._

But nothing seemed to have changed in her, or him. Though… how would she know? Had it affected Caritas… or Fen’sulevin? She gripped her knees tighter, to hide her heated face, and tried to think of something else instead, just as Jawen cursed – _fenedhis, girl, I needed that! –_ in final, sated, pleasure.

 _Please,_ thought Virla urgently. _Let that be enough._

A faint whinny broke the silence. Horses. _Pride._ Caritas had said that ancient signs of pride in her world were horses – like that picture in her Skyhold room of Pride and Rider – and the Sun, the colour violet. These city elves, they had so little to have pride in. Why had the elves of later Arlathan been so lacking in it, that they had crumbled when their city fell to Tevinter’s might, their spirits broken, a thousand years before Ameridan? _My ancestors._ _How could you be content to surrender, knowing it will all end with you?_

_How could you not fight?_

_**My** people fell._

She opened her eyes, looking away from where Faith, bare-legged, no longer ridden, was staring at the eastern sky, and where Jawen was tugging on his breeches. Southwest, through bars, she found Fenrir, high in the sky. The stars winked down at her. She thought about the ancient Neromenians.

A single tribe, from the north, who split to form the kingdoms that re-formed Tevinter.

A single tribe, that told a tale of a wolf fleeing into the sky: _Fenrir_.

South lay Equinor, the stallion, sometimes a seated griffon. Originally, perhaps, a halla. _However, as horses had great significance to early Neromenian culture… this speculation is largely considered unfounded._

And up above, through bars that formed the cage’s roof, shone Solium _… it represents the fascination of early peoples (such as the Neromenians, predecessors to the ancient Tevinter Imperium) with all objects in the sky, the Sun and Moon in particular._

_My people fell._

_The Veil **created** humans. His people are… **Tevinter**. That’s… bizarre._

And up above, the moon shone down, speaking in hushed whispers.

****

When the dawn came, her speculations of the previous night refused to leave her. Danzig and Tulios and Gaj leashed the horses to the cage and rode them northwards by the willows and the river.

That book she’d read by Enchanter Mirdromel: _The most powerful demons yet encountered are the pride demons, perhaps because they, among all their kind, most resemble men; as clever and manipulative as the desire demon, with a penchant for cruel irony that is almost human._

Or Cole and Solas: _You may well become fully human, after all. I never thought to see it. / When did you see it before? / I did not say that I had. / No, you didn’t. It’s harder to hear, sometimes. I’m sorry._

Or that lullaby from Denerim that matched the elven tablet found in the Temple of Mythal:

> _When waked, we walked where willows wail, / Tel'enara bellana bana'vhenadahl… we lost eternity._  
>  _When wolfen wan, we wastrels warred. / Ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am'tela'elvahen… we lost the People._

Could Helsdim – _may he be alive! –_ be right after all, about the war between Tevinter and Orlais? As Tulios leered back at her, she closed her eyes and struggled to remember where the southern tribes had come from: Ciriane, Inghirsh and Alamarri. The far southwest, near the Abyssal Rift perhaps. She remembered ladders climbing; veilfire in the Deep Roads: _The People must rise before their false gods destroy them all._

And the tomb of Paragon Fairel, where the Hissing Wastes once had been a forest. _For pride these halls were made… and loss, a brother mourned._ Fallen elves, and rising dwarves… and humans filled with pride.

Pride demons were corrupted wisdom **or** corrupted faith. That book from Leliana, by Bader of Ostwick, said: _a greater pride demon, brought across the Veil, would threaten the entire world… possession of vast intellect… will bring other demons across the Veil in numbers to achieve their own ends…_

If she hadn’t closed her eyes already, blocking out the sun, she would have done it then.

This could not be right, could _not_ be right… but _could_ it?

This whole world was a giant chessboard. Were they taking turns? Which they? How did it work?

_A war in the Fade, waged with human hate. I should not like to see that. / It would be a terrible thing. / It was wrong to hide it in a child. It hurt her._

She was far, far beyond tears right now. Andraste cried for three days after Sundermount, so Varric said when they had ridden up there for the view. Had that been _her_ Crestwood? What else had she known?

****

Where the two main branches of the river met, they were loaded, still in the cage, on to a ship, which sailed north to Vyrantium. The river was broad but placid, and the men and Faith were shackled to positions in the lower deck, and given oars to row with. Tulios had said to Danzig he should let her out, and make her row as well, but Danzig simply shook his head and pointed to her arm.

There was little room in her compartment to walk around, but she tried to stretch her legs and practice exercising with her ghostly hand. She could make it look quite real now, for a short while, if she focused on her right arm and a mirror image. With the cage lashed to the upper deck, the sun beat down with no respite. Solas had taught her the magic for preventing sunburn, and she used it every morning, as soon as no-one was around to watch.   

When they disembarked, they chained her feet and hand in a line with Faith and Jawen and the other two. She regretted not finding out more about them all – after all, none of them was there by choice, except for her – but obscurity for now was probably the wisest course of action, and she didn’t really want to tell an outright lie. They were taken to the marketplace. She was unchained, and stood with Danzig to one side, manacled now only to his arm. The others had their clothes and faces tugged around, were told to straighten up; were generally abused by proud Tevinters. Inside she screamed: _Your Maker is an elf_.

And then she saw a woman walking tall, her fair hair wreathed in snakes behind her head, scented with expensive jasmine oil. This woman had no maker but herself, and Virla knew immediately: _Calpernia._

Power rolled from her in waves, and yet... she hadn’t sent a servant for her.

Virla kept her head held high.

 


	49. In whose Vyrantium summit?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Each and every master, regardless of the era or the place, heard the call and attained harmony with heaven and earth. There are many paths leading to the top of Mount Fuji, but there is only one summit – love.” - Morihei Ueshiba, the Great Teacher and founder of the Japanese martial art, aikido

“Mistress Calpernia,” said Danzig, as she approached, followed by a dwarven man in leather armour.

The slaver bowed in greeting to the fair-haired woman, pulling Virla’s – _Vita’s_ – manacled wrist so that she was forced to incline her body as well. In the lazy humid heat of the Vyrantium slave market, she could feel sweat trickling down her back, and rising dread. The sun here was crueller than in the South, intense and lustful. Her heart ached for the other slaves trapped in its burning glare, both those being poked and prodded, sold, and those who traipsed around with heavy burdens: elves, Qunari, even humans.

Here, with Danzig and Mistress Calpernia – _my new mistress_ – they were shaded by a cotton awning, its deep maroon casting a pinkish glow upon their skins. _I am Vitalia Aclassi_ , she told herself, _a scribe to my former master Solitarios. I have some knowledge of Tevene and Elvish. I can write._

Calpernia scrutinized her with hazel eyes. Her brows drew together. “I see she has but one arm,” she said to Danzig. “Do you care to explain that?”

For answer, he thrust out the letter. “It was not my doing. I was informed that you were aware of the condition of the merchandise, my lady,” he said, bowing again and licking his lips nervously.

Vita felt the woman’s aura flickering with some subtle rage, as she scanned the letter signed Solitarios. Calpernia looked again at where her arm was not. “Vitalia,” she said. “How did this happen?”

“It was a magical accident, my lady,” said Vita. “I touched something I shouldn’t.”

“In your master’s house?”

She shook her head. “Before I met him.”

“Did he take care of you?”

Memories of Solas helping her dismount, teaching, healing, cutting off her arm… “Yes, my lady.”

“You were sorry to leave him,” said Calpernia, apparently satisfied for now. She turned back to Danzig and the matter of payment, taking out her purse. Her dwarven companion took out another manacle for Vita.

 _This is not leaving him,_ thought Virla, with sudden sharp intent. _Even he can’t take me from him._

Her new mistress, perhaps alerted by the rippling in the Veil, followed her gaze to where Faith stood, bolt upright against a post, her chin pinched upwards by a tall man, leering down. He was dressed in formal Tevinter robes, the traditional upturned crescent on his headdress. _Where had she seen that sign before?_

“The woman over there,” said Calpernia, glaring at Danzig. “Is she one of yours?”

The slaver nodded. “That one’s Faith. I found her on the streets in Kirkwall. I doubt she can read or write, so I presumed you would have no interest in her.”

“You’ll give her to me as well in exchange for my overlooking Vitalia’s deformity,” said Calpernia, firmly. “But take note. I will not buy any more slaves that have been harmed, by brands or whips or accidents.”

Danzig swallowed, but appeared to accept this, along with the purse Calpernia handed to him. He dug out a key from within his robes, to unlock the chains that held Vita to him.

“I am Dulin Forender,” murmured the armoured dwarf, as they transferred her chains and thereby ownership, “and I request that you accompany us quietly. All will be well if you behave.”

They walked to Faith, and Danzig coughed. “Beg pardon, my lord, but this merchandise is sold already.”

The Tevinter lord glared down at him, then caught sight of Calpernia, and a look of terror crossed his face. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked from the marketplace. Virla wondered at her mistress’ reputation, that she commanded such respect, and how Solas had known of her.

And in the covered wagon, on the way to Calpernia’s estate, preserving her Tevinter scribe façade, she thought of how Solas had approached the fledgling Inquisition – _like walking through a world of Tranquil, not even people_ – and how they’d shown him he was wrong. _You were people, and you deserved better… like all the rest I have used in one hopeless battle after another._

She looked at Dulin driving, Faith, Calpernia, and wondered how the world looked from their eyes.

****

They drove in through a crumbling marble archway, up a road with new laid cobblestones. The wagon pulled up by a grand villa, undergoing restoration works. Calpernia turned round to face them.

“Vitalia,” she said. “Dulin will show you where you sleep. I will see you in one hour in the library.”

“What about me?” muttered Faith, as she disembarked and strode off, leaving them still chained to the iron rings bolted on to the wagon. Dulin whipped the horses up again and rode around to another entrance, where a human man assisted him with unhooking the horses and leading them away.

When they finally were let out, Virla was surprised that they were no longer kept in chains.

“Don’t bother escaping,” warned Dulin. “You’ll be picked up by one of the neighbouring estates, and none of them will care for you like Mistress Calpernia. Also, watch for snakes and spiders.”

Faith flinched, and Virla, remembering that brief period without her magic, felt a rush of sympathy for her. If she wanted, she could burn this villa down, and all the vineyards that surrounded it, call lightning to fight spiders, protect herself with barriers. Faith had none of that, just a sweet, once-pretty face, and a will to work to live, and make the best of it.

They were led to a kitchen, given water, bread, and a short address by Dulin. Faith would assist the cook for now. Vita was given no further instructions, but was hurried along through marbled corridors and to a pair of gleaming wooden doors. _Easier on the heart to see the gilding, and not the hands rubbed raw…_

Before Dulin opened them, he turned to her. “Mistress Calpernia is a powerful mage. Do what she says.”

She nodded, and followed him through. The library was an old one, large, with many shelves replaced with new-cut wood, and scribes working in corners doing… what? Paintings of old magisters stared down at her, and she wondered why they seemed familiar.

Halfway across the room to where Calpernia stood gazing out of a window, the connection fell into place. The faces in the paintings were reminding her of Erimond. _Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium._ This must be _his_ estate. She swallowed, remembering at once his plans, his execution at her hands, white velvet of a Fade dress staining green and blue. _There will be a time when you can put that sword away_ , said Solas.

But… did that mean that Calpernia was one of the Venatori? _Fen’Harel ma ghilana! I am sunk._

Her mind whirled with the possibilities: did Calpernia know who she really was, or not? _When a position’s threatened, when the stakes are high,_ she thought, _that’s when it bites. Only the costumes change._

“Thank you, Dulin,” said Calpernia, without turning round, and the steward bowed and walked away.

Vitalia stared at the back of Calpernia’s head: at the perfect central parting in her hair; the plaited buns looped underneath each ear above a plain black dress. She steeled herself. The woman was short and slight like her, but the ex-Inquisitor would be the last to underestimate apparent frailty.

“What do you think of Tevinter, Vitalia?” asked Calpernia, turning round.  

 _A good question._ “My life has been cloistered, mistress. I know little beyond what I have read in books.”

“And what books have you read?”

Vita reeled off a short list of works in various languages, all sufficiently common not to arouse too much suspicion, all of which she’d read. Behind Calpernia, vines flourished in the scorching sun.

“Good. I did not expect you so civilized. And yet… those Solitarios has sent me have proved their worth.”

“Have you met my master?”

Calpernia shook her head. “I am told he is a solitary man, not given much to company.”

“He has made studies of the Fade, of ancient lore and history. Of times when Dreamers ruled Tevinter.”

“My former master was another such,” said Calpernia, her mouth twisting in bitterness. “But _he_ _did_ _nothing_ with his knowledge. The Qunari harass the coastline with their dreadnoughts, and we do little more than play at fighting with them in Seheron. When they come in earnest, will Tevinter fall?”

“I hope not, my lady,” said Vita, wondering who Calpernia’s ex-master was. Had she been a slave?

Calpernia’s eyes narrowed. “And why should _you_ care? Tevinter felled your empire, after all.”

Her mistress indicated she should follow, and left it a rhetorical question. That suited Virla. She _did_ care deeply about the future of Tevinter, but her motives were more tangled than she could unravel. In Tevinter, individual will was paramount. It was a bulwark against the constraints of the Qun, a shield behind which the freedom of Ferelden could unfold, a place where magic could be studied, unconstrained. Each mage who grew too arrogant was cut down by others, sucking life and blood and lyrium from elves and dwarves to gain the power. In Orlais magic had been ruled by faith; in Tevinter it was free to grow.

Knowledge mattered here, and she shivered at the risk that she was running. If she had to fight against Calpernia, it was not guaranteed she would prevail; and the secrets that she carried were a risk to many more beyond herself. They walked down corridors and stairs to a basement Calpernia’s keys unlocked, and stood within an empty wine cellar. A further door lay at its farthest end, sealed with violet magic.

Calpernia retrieved a brazier and a heavy board from a shelf, with parchment affixed to the board.

“Light it, Vitalia,” she commanded, holding out the brazier.

“You knew I was a mage, my lady?” Vita tried to sound surprised.

“Solitarios said that he was sending me a mage, when he sent me the scroll to describe what we will see in here. He also – while I was away last month – placed the man that we will find in here. He was my old master Erasthenes, a magister of Minrathous. He was bound by a containment spell, strong enough to hold a dozen pride demons. _Iron, to cage lightning._ If he tells a lie, he suffers immense physical pain.”

Vita lit the brazier with veilfire, thinking: _Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth’s heart in iron and ice._

She waited, expecting Calpernia to break the seals on the door, or tell her more. The woman cast her a frustrated look. “Did Solitarios not brief you properly? These seals are tied to you. I cannot open them.”

“At once, my lady,” said Vita, wondering what kind of trap she’d walked into, and who the bait was for. “May I have the brazier?”

Remembering the shrine at Razikale’s Reach, she held the veilfire brazier out with her right hand, and waved it at the seals. Nothing happened. Did it need her blood? That seemed… unlikely. Hawke had said Corypheus had been held in a prison sealed by blood, but that was by the Wardens, not by Solas.

She reached into the Fade, for memory, and the faintest whisper came to mind, of an elven archer, pointing at four trees: evade the wolves, and bring the worlds to life. _The Dead Hand._ But…

Heart hammering, she raised her _other_ hand, the ghostly one, and gestured as if opening a rift, like she had once done on a lonely southern island, haunted by a woman named Telana. _Some things linger._

It was like a warm embrace, the violet magic flowing into her; an inverted sceptre, shaped from tip to base. She could see the outline of her missing arm, with a glowing cut across her hand, and feel Fen’sulevin watching from the Fade. The path stood clear now, only barred by mundane wood and metal.

She drew the magic from her arm, making it invisible again, and turned to face Calpernia. The woman looked as cool as ever, calm and in control, but Virla could feel the fear beneath the mask. The magic had whispered images, of Calpernia ordering the poisoning of wells in Wycome, of her whippings as a slave, of her appointment by Corypheus as the leader of the Venatori… of her desire to re-birth Tevinter…

It left her with an image of Silentir, a man with horn and wand, or dragon. _Justice._ Virla took a breath.

Calpernia drew herself up. “What manner of magic is this, that Solitarios has taught you?”

“Redemption,” said the Lady of Sorrow, improvising. “Shall we go inside, my lady?”

****

Erasthenes had been enchained as Calpernia had described. He told his former slave that, had she been chosen as the Vessel for the Well of Sorrows rather than the templar Samson, his prison would have been hers instead: a creature with power like Urthemiel’s, arisen in flame, but no will to use it for themselves.

Vitalia had shrunk into the shadows with the board, writing as Calpernia had asked, and watched as the woman mulled over what her options were. Breaching the wards to free him would leave only dust and light – _the jewelled husk when the butterfly leaves_. She could make him Tranquil, or could leave him there for questioning, to use his knowledge whenever she wished.

Virla considered what she could deduce. Had Solas wanted to free Erasthenes, he would have done so. He must have judged Calpernia would choose to let him live as well. She’d drink from this man’s knowledge of the Old Gods like Corypheus would have drunk by proxy from the Vir’Abelasan. It reminded her of Blackwall letting his men take the fall for him. This man was being hanged by slow and terrifying inches, a living death. Was there any way to break the spell, the geas, and keep the man intact?

Calpernia was furious with Corypheus, and stormed out of the room, ordering Vitalia to follow her, deaf to Erasthenes’ requests for release. She locked the door behind them and cast a barrier of her own across it.

“Once, my existence was in his hands. Now, his is in mine,” she murmured, half to herself. “I will use his knowledge to rebuild Tevinter, make it great again. A beacon for all, standing against the savage Qunari.”

Virla felt sick, and wondered if she should have dashed across the room, and breached the wards. She was no Cole, but the man’s hurt called to her. For several hours after that, as she carried out the translation tasks on tomes about the Old Gods that Calpernia had set her, she could not shake the fury that engulfed her. How could Solas leave a man like that, and bring him here, to one who cared so little for him?

****

At the end of the day, the slaves – or servants, as Calpernia referred to them, though there had been no talk of payment yet, or choices – sat at a long table by the villa. The sun had just set in burning red, the sky a blaze of gold and pink over the vines. Faith sat down beside her, and gestured at the sky.

“Such a pity the beautiful sun has set,” she said. “But this is better food than I ever had in Kirkwall.”

Virla looked at her thin cut of steak, a faint scent of blood weeping from it. The smell brought back a memory of veilfire in the Deep Roads, scarce a month ago… _a vivid image of green vines growing and enveloping a sphere of fire…_ the many eyes of pride demons, and the mural in the Darvaarad.

The Old Gods. _Silence, chaos, fire, unity/slavery, beauty, mystery, night._ All aspects – avatars – of the Sun.

“The sun isn’t absent during the night. It just can’t be seen,” she said, out loud. “It’s a metaphor for hope.”

Faith grimaced. “Don’t go all Chantry on me, Vita. Only thing I’ll ever believe in is the dawn.”

Virla shook her head as realisation dawned: _he sent Erasthenes to **me** , not her_. “That’s good enough.”

  
  
  



	50. Tango on a darkened summit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Knights’ Tango is an offbeat response to a queen’s pawn opening by White. Calpernia may be forced to defend her position. Virla reaches for the centre.

Two weeks passed for Virla, alone at Villa Erimond. The secret of her identity lay heavily upon her chest, less visible than the wolf’s that Solas carried with him, but weighty nonetheless. Hard to believe Calpernia had _not_ connected her with that one-armed woman who had strode up to Divine Victoria and her Exalted Council, proclaiming the Inquisition over. What she’d found within the villa had confirmed her suspicions that Calpernia had led the Venatori, once. So why was the woman silent?

But then, she herself had not connected Solas’ jawbone with the Dread Wolf, had she?   

Though reports had told her the Venatori groups had splintered, her observations told her that Calpernia still had her spies, her loyal followers, that rode in with the evening dust and left at dawn. Their Cause to make Tevinter great, root out corruption, fend off the Qunari. Whatever tears Calpernia had shed, over Corypheus’ defeat or losses to the Inquisition, were long since dry. Even if she did guess that Solitarios’ scribe and her Teacher’s killer were the same, maybe she no longer cared.

Virla wondered if her own plans endured. She’d left agreements with her Skyhold triumvirate of Hawen, Desjardins and Harding, aided by Divine Victoria and Charter, to make it seem the Inquisitor remained at Skyhold. Was Dorian alive? Was anybody looking for her? At first the absence of those daily teas with Josephine, those stops with Rector on the road for briefings, had seemed almost a blessing. _Freedom._ Now it seemed a curse: the library held knowledge but no information. Time was stagnant. _Why am I here?_

 _Lath sulevin, lath aravel ena…_ she told herself. _Var lath vir suledin._

She shifted the weights that held her writing scroll in place, and tidied her materials into the desk she had been allocated. In one thing at least Calpernia had impressed her: she did treat scribes as employees, and the estate was managed carefully so as to provide them all with a wage. Incentive to be loyal, perhaps, but also recognition of their status as something more than _liberati_. Those new among them referred to Calpernia as a Laetan, but not within her hearing, and whispered that her goal was to take one of the three seats that Laetans were allowed, and become a Magister in truth as well as power.

Those who had known Calpernia longer shook their heads, and Virla too knew that that course was unlikely. Calpernia must know that Archon Radonis had no love for Venatori either. Since appointment by the Archon was a Laetan’s only chance for a seat in the Magisterium, Calpernia’s only routes to power within Tevinter were constricted: lead a mass rebellion to overturn the system, or conspire to take Radonis’ throne herself. No Magister or Chantry cleric could become Archon, not since the Black Age. She remembered Dorian explaining that as well, and shivered. Was _he_ dead, like his father?

_If the shemlen should strike on your journey… Falon’Din… below…_

She forced herself back into her persona. Unassuming elven scribe. Alive. _Vitalia._

****

After dinner, she went for her accustomed walk around the outside of the villa, a light cloak shrouding both her arms from view. There was a bench, secluded from the villa by a cedar hedge. It sat beside the outer edge of a circular maze. The maze had once been tended, she imagined, by generations of Lord Livius’ ancestors. Now it was overgrown and wild inside, only the outer circle trimmed with care. When seated on the bench she could look north across the vineyards and the darkening Nocen Sea to Alam on Seheron, north-west towards Minrathous, or west across Vyrantium’s spires to Marnas Pell.

She’d watched butterflies dancing on the growing vines, her heart aching for Erasthenes each day she searched the library and found no key to save him. Too far from Caritas at nights to seek her counsel.

She’d scanned the sea for signs of the invading fleet, foretold by Solas. How would the Magisterium react?

She’d flexed her hands in practice, doubt and hope still warring in her heart. The evening she succeeded in picking up a raven feather with her missing hand, she almost wept for joy.

But tonight the scents of laurel, spindleweed and mint did not belong to her alone.

The bench was occupied... by a man around whom power swirled and built, all hazy in the twilight.

Virla stopped, as if to turn around and circle round the maze another way, but not in time to prevent the man who sat there from hearing – or sensing – her approach.

“Vitalia, is it not?” he called, eyes still on the seas far to the north. “Do come and join me.”

His voice was unfamiliar, deep and low; Tevene. His hands twitched on the staff he held across his knees, a twisted rod with three snakes intertwining at its tip, their mouths wide open, sharp with fangs.

She walked forward, and sat beside him where he’d indicated, conscious of her ears still poking through her dyed-blonde hair, her absent arm, and lack of staff to wield. After a pause, he drew his gaze back from the sea, and eyed her with amused interest, letting the silence lengthen out. His eyes were piercing blue, set in a deep brown face. White teeth shone above a fishtail beard, before his lips compressed to sadness.

“From afar,” said the man, gesturing across the ocean to Seheron and then eastwards to Par Vollen, “they heard the sound of ten thousand voices raised in song, and the marching of a great host.”

Vitalia managed a quiet blink of confusion, even as Virla recognised the reference: _Shartan 9:16._

“Did you come alone,” he continued, quietly, “to see what army comes, singing, to the lands of Tevinter? Andraste would have brought an army to our gates, but her Herald brings but a single arm.”

“You mock me, my lord,” said Vitalia, through lips suddenly dry. “I am but an elven servant.”

“I think it is you that seeks to mock _me,_ Inquisitor,” said the man. “And here I thought we had the makings of an alliance against the ox-men to the north. You to bring Ferelden and Orlais in line, Bhelen for…”

“You’re Radonis,” cut in Virla, shocked despite herself. Time was moving once again. “You’re the Archon.”

He nodded, curtly. “Did you think that you could come into my lands and disappear? Your actions in the South inflamed Par Vollen and now they think they have no choice but to attack us all in force.”

“Tevinter holds the line against the Qun… there is no glory in extinction,” said Virla, recalling Leliana’s summaries of reports from agents who had met Radonis. The words were his, or so they’d said.

“Indeed there is not,” said the Archon, with a low sigh. “Your troops assisted mine with Venatori threats, and I need your word, and that of your Divine Victoria, that you will not attempt to force Tevinter’s southern flank while we face the Qunari. I’m aware it is too much to ask that you might aid us publically.”

Virla blinked. The man was serious, and as shrewd as Josephine had told her. “What makes you think that I can hold back Ferelden or Orlais? They forced me to disband the Inquisition’s army.”

“A gesture which only increased your standing with the nobles,” he insisted, softly.

When she shook her head, he conjured an Orlesian caprice coin in his hand, and tossed it in the air. The lion and the sun span round, a blur of gold. “Lady Alcyone. Victory in the Grand Game is not merely determined by what one has at one's command, one's connections, and one's machinations, but what one is willing to give up,” he quoted. “Orlais honours self-sacrifice, or at least the good appearance of it.”

“And Tevinter?”

“Authority, or at least the good appearance of it,” said the Archon. “Posturing is necessary, as your other friend might say. _Na via lerno victoria,_ and since Virla knows Victoria, you live.”

“My… other friend?” said Virla, remembering a cold day and a shyer Dalish girl in Haven. And Solas.

“The one they called _the good Tevinter_ , I believe.”

“Did he reach Minrathous safely?” asked Virla, then wondered what she’d do if he said _no_.

“Naturally,” said Radonis, his eyes widening. “Oh, don’t tell me that you didn’t guess that I was watching him. I won’t believe it. Most Magisters care little for what happens outside Minrathous, but the younger Pavus was different… _is_ different. Such a pity that Halward lost his head while Dorian was in the South. Once I thought I might have named the boy my heir. His bloodlines are impeccable, and he despises Tevinter and the Magisterium as only one who loves them could. But he lacks the will of steel to rule.”

“The Archon must have strength to stand against the Magisterium, should it be needed?”

Radonis nodded. “It is a tricky task, to find an heir. With no children still living, I had thought to leave it to the Magisterium, rather than procure myself a rival who would seek to hasten my demise – or, if less dishonourable, an easy target for assassins. But now, with the Qunari lowering horns, preparing for the charge, they would prefer a general, and not a politician. Gold spent, assassins hired. As well as me, they seek to eliminate Moderati such as Halward Pavus, and new progressives like the Lucerni party your friend is seeking to develop. Corypheus has much to answer for.”

Virla thought of Anora, and Celene, of King Markus of Nevarra, and of Varric in the Viscount’s Keep in Kirkwall, and of a man who refused to let her share his burden. _It is my fight._

She took another deep breath. “Why tell me this?”

“Pavus left Cumberland with you, but arrived without you. I assumed – incorrectly, as it turned out – that you had sought to beat me to my prey. I must insist you leave Calpernia for me.”

“Incorrectly?”

“Well, she’s not dead yet,” smiled Radonis thinly. “And we both know that you have the power.”

Virla wasn’t quite so sure, but dared not say so. “Why is she your prey? How will it benefit Tevinter in its war against the Qun, for its most powerful to war against each other?”

“A good question,” chimed a third voice, from the shadows behind them.

Virla froze. _It sounded like… it couldn’t be…_

Radonis rose and swirled around to stand and face the hedge, a barrier cast, expression blank, staff raised.

A single cedar from the hedge stepped forward and emerged in armoured vestments. _Morrigan._

“You did not think our fine and fair Andraste here would have sat with you alone, Radonis?”

Virla was glad the dim light sufficed to hide embarrassment. Not only had Radonis found her, so had Morrigan. She wondered briefly whether Morrigan was still in thrall to some dark piece of Mythal’s vengeance, or if not, what ends she sought.

“My answer has not changed,” spat out Radonis. “I need no envoy to the Qun. They do not seek peace.”

“Then nor do you, and both of you are fools,” said Morrigan. “Only a fool would attempt to push the waves back with his hands rather than build a bridge. Seheron should have taught you that.”

“There is no common ground upon which to build such a bridge,” said Radonis. “Where we see freedom they see chaos; what we call brainwashing they would name duty for the greater good. Honour.”

“Then Tevinter has already lost its politician, and you might as well declare your war with no delay.”

Morrigan glared at Radonis. He stood unflinching, the barrier still shimmering around his form.

“It will be hard to find wisdom in the noise,” said Virla. “The paths ahead are lost in darkness, and those who walk them find only ruin. The noise is an illusion. Like the darkness. But the walls are real.”

They both looked at her, astonished, as if a rabbit had appeared from underneath the bench and spoken, instead of a one-armed elf. She fended off the anger – that would be ironic, after all – and continued.

“The writings of a Qunari who was once an Ashkaari, and the writings of Tevinter priests mourning Razikale’s silence,” she explained. “The former recent, the latter a thousand years ago. The walls are built of fear and anger. And further back, the writings of another man: Without the wise to lead them, they will lose what they should have been. You translated that for me, Morrigan, you know where we found it.”

Radonis raised an eyebrow. “Is this philosophy of any practical use?”

“They said that when Corypheus was woken, he spoke of how the light of wisdom had gone black. Calpernia is known to repeat the Verses of Dumat: In silence lies the beating heart of wisdom.”

The expressions on their faces told her silence might say something else, as well.

She knew that she was stepping out in darkness, her only partner for this dance a man so utterly inscrutable and lost that leads were left in dreams and ancient books and riddles. In gifts of a forgotten, broken man held in an ancient spell no-one could break. How would _he_ forge a truce?

“Withdraw from Seheron,” said Virla, suddenly. Radonis continued to look down his nose at her. At least he was listening. She continued: “You lose more elven slaves to the Qun than you would do if you pulled the Imperial army out. If I could find a way to take the elves back from them…”

She didn’t dare look at Morrigan, but her silence on _that_ point suggested she was listening too.

“The Tal-Vashoth and rebels would focus on the Qunari, and I could move our best legions to the mainland to defend Qarinus and Carastes. But the Magisterium would say that we had failed.”

“Then appoint Calpernia as your heir,” said Virla. “They’d talk of nothing else but her, and she could convince some of the magisters that you can’t reach right now.”

The Archon’s lips twisted. “Even the Qunari triumvirate might take some notice. The Venatori went from strength to strength, in battlefield and in the Magisterium, since she seized power. Even when you broke Alexius’ plans and Corypheus sidelined them all, she built them up and kept them going.”

“I take it that the idea had crossed your mind, already, then,” said Virla, dryly.

Radonis nodded. “She’s ruthless enough. If I made a deal that I would appoint her as my heir in exchange for a period of… good… behaviour, with sufficient credible witnesses to underline the deal, and Imperial chantry priests…”

“…and those who still honour Dumat…” put in Morrigan, inspecting her fingernails.

“If I must.”

“If so, I could secure us allies in the South, to help us broker peace. We negotiated peace between Ferelden and Orlais, and there must be some among the Qunari who do not think the Qun demands war.”

“They present as ever, a united front. Who knows what debates rage within Par Vollen?”

Virla nodded, and Radonis shrugged. “An interesting conversation. I will think on it.”

He changed into a raven and was gone, flying fast across the night to Vyrantium.

“It will be hard to find wisdom in the noise,” repeated Morrigan, and Virla wondered if she were thinking of the voices from the Vir’Abelasan. Then her tone changed to a bitter sarcasm. “Were you thinking that I might embrace my mother’s part within your little game? Enchant the elves with tales of Great Mythal?”

Another cedar faded into dust, and this time both Morrigan and Virla gasped as an armoured, gilded, figure strode out from the branches. A single grim chuckle escaped his lips.

“I don’t think that will be required,” said Solas.

Virla looked into his glowing eyes and blanched.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complex dances are hard to choreograph, particularly when life is busy too. Apologies for the delay in this one. I'll keep updating when I can.


	51. Zugzwang: cardinal skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A player is said to be in Zugzwang when any possible move will worsen their position. It occurs frequently in chess endgames with few pieces. Cardinals can be good or bad omens, depending on whether you follow Native American lore or Alexandre Dumas, but both are associated with the colour red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy angst warning, and possible triggers of self-harm (implied). You may wish to read the next few chapters all at once if this affects you. I promise it gets better!

Virla could not drag her eyes away from him, nor make a sound. She had not expected him so soon, had thought that she would need to solve the puzzle of Erasthenes’ prison (if she could) before she heard from him again. Yet there he was: bathed in moonlight from silver pauldrons to gilded boots; the white glow dimming from his eyes as he manifested; his whole perfect body here… and speaking.

She stood up from the bench, pale hair tousled by the gentle breeze, trying to form words.

But it was Morrigan who drew his gaze, not her. He addressed the human woman in an ancient form of Elvish, spoken fast enough that Virla could not make out more than half the words, far less the nuance Morrigan had spoken of. His tone was even – flat and cold. Hers grew steadily more agitated. They appeared to be talking about some kind of formal ritual, some kind of binding, perhaps: _vir uthsulahn._

“Solas…” whispered Virla, then shrank back as he spared a glance for her: cold, and forbidding.

Morrigan also turned to her, and Virla felt her golden gaze grow soft, and calculating. She shivered, feeling more like prey than ever she had felt in Calpernia’s house, or as a slave. A lamb between a dragon and a wolf, contending for the kill. Shorn and motherless and far – _so very far –_  from home.

“She must come as well,” said Morrigan, gesturing at Virla. “The ritual requires a second, of my choosing.”

“ _Tel’banal’ras. Bel’elvhen, mirthadra elvhen, him andvar aratishan,”_ replied Solas, with studied calm.

“ _Vir sulevanan,_ ” snapped Morrigan, as Virla bit back anger at the insult. Had the spirits not said she was honoured too, no shadow? _Many elvhen – honoured elvhen – will dwell in our place of peace._

When Solas did not immediately reply, Morrigan shook her head, and made as if to reach for her staff. Virla grabbed her wrist, saying: “No. You don’t know his strength! You don’t know who he is!”

Morrigan looked down at her, one eyebrow raised, and sighed. “And you do, I suppose?”

“He’s Fen’Harel. I’ve seen him turn Qunari into stone. The orb Corypheus had was his. He killed…” _your mother,_ she wanted to say, but bit it back. She still had secrets from them both.

“It is clear that he is not the meek apostate he pretended,” said Morrigan. “Fen’Harel, you said?”

Virla’s heart clenched in her chest. Should she have said that? She looked to Solas for – guidance? Immediate petrification? Nothing. She took her hand away from Morrigan’s wrist, and nodded.

Solas nodded too, then, as if this byplay was entirely predictable, a necessary exchange of words, or pawns. No flicker of emotion crossed his face as he looked down at his gauntleted hands and wrists. He’d not even really looked at her, or at the absence of her arm. Pain throbbed heavily in her chest, as she swallowed in furious envy. He wanted Morrigan to come with him, for some shrouded purpose, and seemed indifferent to… well, to her. As if she were a being of no consequence. Had he not _told_ her that she’d made a difference, that he would never forget her, that, if not for her, he’d see all mortals just as…

_Tranquil._

Virla gulped in scented air as recognition crashed down like a flood. She’d no idea how he might still be clinging on to magic, but the lack of all emotion – the memories of her, but not of how he _felt_ about her…

 _Once Falon’Din’s power surpassed Mythal’s, the Envy demon took him. The People sundered him from his soul and from his twin._ When she’d read that, she’d assumed that that had been long in the past, but…

 _Tranquil._ To be draining from the world, from personality, from memory…

A sudden, desperate grief renewed the harshness in her chest. “If you want me, I will come,” she said to Morrigan. “I do not know the ancient rules around _vir sulevanan_ , and what it can entitle, but…”

Tears choked her voice, and Morrigan glared up at Solas. “ _Isala Virlath. Vir sulevanan. Banal’ras nadas, …”_

Flemeth's daughter broke into another flurry of archaic Elvish, uninterrupted. At the end of it all, Solas simply bowed his head and acquiesced. “ _Ma nuvenin, ‘ma’asha.”_

He turned and stepped into the maze, the cedars gliding out from either side like trees before an aravel. Morrigan grabbed her right arm through the cloak and pushed her on before the passage closed. Solas’ stride was long and swift; they struggled to keep up. From somewhere nearby Virla could hear Calpernia’s voice and steps, with another’s footsteps coming round the outside of the circle from the other side.

“Marius? Did you hear anything? I thought I felt a rippling in the Veil just now,” called Calpernia.

Solas had driven all thoughts of Radonis and Tevinter from her mind, but she cast a look and a thought back for Calpernia. A prayer up to the silent, deadly heavens – _vir atish’an, andaran atish’an –_ that Leliana would ensure Celene and Anora did not take advantage on the southern flank, that there would be good Qunari just as Dorian had been her good Tevinter. She’d have to find a way to get a message to them all.

Still looking back, her foot encountered an unexpected stone, and grazed her knee upon what turned out to be an elven well, much weathered by the passing of the ages. Solas offered a hand to her to help her up, politely, as if she had been a withered old crone, too weak and frail to get up by herself.

And so, if he were immortal, and she mortal, so might be her fate, even if they could still be together.

Duty done, he resumed his air of calm arrogance. As she watched raw power gather at his hands, to widen up the opening of the well and reveal a set of steps inside, it was almost possible to believe that this was still _her_ Solas – the wolf whose sad and longing gaze watched her at starts and ends of dreams. Could it be that his lack of recognition, his dull, impassive tone, was an act, a feint for Morrigan, and that if she could just get him once alone, she’d see the mask might slip once more, that he might… smile… for her?

 _A very cruel act, if so._ Yet… his smiles had been rare in any case. Was this truly him, and had she imagined his compassion, his dry wit, even his bickering with Vivienne… or Morrigan…? Was this an act, deception?

She felt as if she might faint, and clung to mosses on the walls as if their damp reality might stop her falling if she did. No Avvar healer this time, no Dorian, no Cullen to catch her. Just a gelded man and a woman in thrall to some force bent on vengeance. Was Morrigan using her as a shield or as a friend?

At the bottom of the steps stood an eluvian, its surface swimming, showing that the Crossroads lay beyond. Feeling sick again, she followed through. They stood on an isolated rock, floating above the endless abyss and below the oil-slicked rainbow sky.

“ _Sahlin him!_ ” commanded Solas – _now change! –_ and she saw Morrigan turn pale as well.

“I cannot. I must not,” replied Morrigan, speaking in Common. _Habit or defiance?_

Solas looked at her for a moment, then calmly nodded. “ _Ir him. Garas._ ”

The world grew darker for a moment and Virla blinked – wishing that her mind would clear, she would wake up, would see him as a solemn wolf again – to see his form had transformed into that of a dragon.

It was what she had expected, after all, that this realm had been built for dragons, to fly between the rocky outcrops, flit through the eluvians. He’d clearly wanted them to climb upon his back, and so she did, placing her feet carefully upon his huge grey scales. _The difference between grey and silver,_ she thought, thinking of a silver Fade-wolf, and of the moon in Caritas’ world whose dust was grey up close.

The dragon had new bright scars around his forelegs, crimson veins like vallaslin on old grey skin, and she tried not to step on them as she climbed up to the perch above his wings. She wondered who or what had made the wounds, and why they were so concentrated near the talons. Morrigan climbed up behind her, drawing an arm around Virla’s waist to allow them both to hold on with a hand to the spiny ridge.

As soon as they had settled, Solas spread his wings and flew out off the edge, up towards the rainbow sky. Virla felt the place’s vital magic settle on her skin, and with it some of her dull numbness ebbed away. The grief was there, but this place… this was _real_ , and she belonged. She could feel the currents of magic racing in the skies, and sheer ecstasy in flight, however vicarious it was. The remnants of the magic of the orb still in her veins sparked joy, and made her long to grow a pair of wings herself.

“Why didn’t you want to fly as well, Morrigan?” she asked, over her shoulder, peering up into the woman’s golden dragon eyes.

Morrigan just shook her head, looking wan and wretched, and Virla remembered that the Crossroads was not built for humans, even those who drank the _vir’abelasan_ and mastered dragon form, it seemed.

Far too soon they landed once again, beside an eluvian marked with owls and howling wolves. Virla swung her leg across the dragon’s neck and slithered down his leg, landing in a heap beside his claw. They were really _very_ sharp, and polished. When Solas shifted back to elven form, a swirling cloud of darkened mist, she imagined that she saw a vision of him with his teeth and fingernails extended into cruel points, his eyes two blackened spheres and sharp cut wrists.

Then all the magic faded, and he was just a broken soldier, wearing clothes too old for him.

She followed him and Morrigan through the mirror, and found herself inside once more. An old elven citadel, like Revasan in the Dales, among a forest. Not any forest that she knew, though she suspected either Arlathan or Tirashan – too warm to be Brecilian, too cold for Par Vollen.

The eluvian stood on a balcony, and Solas stepped forward at once to present Morrigan – _‘ma asha, lan’asha’bellanar –_ to a crowd that gathered far below, pulsing from the Fade into the world. Elvhen mostly, so far as Virla could make out, from where she had been ushered back, against the wall and mostly out of sight. His soldiers, agents, household, she assumed. She was briefly and incongruously glad her robes and cloak were freshly washed, and that Calpernia took care that her household should have decent cloth to wear. However strange this was, this posturing, this presentation to his people…

…and however desperately wrong it was, that it was _Morrigan_ , and not _her_ , he presented…

…at least she was here, and he was here, and time was flowing once again.

****

 _Aratishan_ , they called it – the place of our peace. She felt defeated, and frustrated, and worn out – no glory for the losers in a war. Eighteen days she’d been here, and the only one she ever saw was Morrigan. They were sitting in Morrigan’s chamber, a gracious, well-kept room with many windows, and wards to keep the monsters out. Or prevent _them_ leaping out, or flying off, or calling to the workers down below.

Off it, her room was a closet, with a simple bed of cedar wood and white linen sheets. Solas had indicated this was hers, before he’d gone away to set up further positions – she assumed – in this world or the Fade.

Food appeared at regular intervals, often while the women slept, and rarely varying: cheese, grapes, nuts.

Clear fresh water formed a fountain in a side room, for thirst and cleanliness. Towels renewed each day.

A chessboard sat, already laid out, Tevinter-style, with ninety-one neat hexagons and an extra pawn and mage. Virla, having never played this variant, wished that Morrigan would play it with her, something to distract her from the deadness of their situation, but the woman preferred to lie upon a divan and leaf through elven books. Even their initial conversations about Fen’Harel, Mythal and shapeshifting had grown more guarded and more tortuous. She grew more wan and listless by the day, and Virla fretted. This wasn’t the Morrigan she knew, either. What had she done? What had Solas done?

The wolf continued to appear in her dreams, apparently oblivious to anything she tried.

No-one found her from the Inquisition. She castigated herself daily for the worry she’d be causing them, and for ever having believed that she could make a difference, stand up to the Dread Wolf.

Her attempts to catch the servants were unsuccessful, though she did ascertain that there were at least three of them, and that they could manifest within the world and disappear almost silently. It reminded of Harlequins in Val Royeaux, and of the sentinels in the Temple of Mythal. All they ever did was help in simple ways, replacing sheets and towels and food and books; she tried to think of that and not of how unnerved the whole place made her feel. A place of peace? _Far, far, too calm. There is a war on!_

At nights, Fen’sulevin held her in his arms, or cuddled up in hers. The demons seemed to stay away.

****

On the nineteenth day, something happened. She watched the procession from the windows of Morrigan’s room, of modern elves – from cities and from Dalish clans – and the beginnings of a city in the wilds, a camp of tents and treehouses, of stolen aravels and purchased wagons.

A light cough made her turn around. _Solas._ Not in armour, but in elven robes: dark grey and sombre.

He stood there, with a goblet in his hand, and crossed the room to kneel beside where Morrigan slept. With a graceful flick of one wrist, he conjured up a spray of crystal grace, and held it in his other hand, as if unsure what rules pertained when courting someone who was not awake.

“Would you like me to take that for you?” asked Virla, thinking of Helisma and of Cole, and how she’d dealt with them, and wondering if she’d have to say the same in Elvish if he didn’t answer.

“ _Ma serannas,_ ” he replied, and stood up, walking over to the window. As he passed the goblet and the flowers to her, she saw bright cuts across his wrists, and winced in sympathetic pain and horror.

“Do you remember… when we were in the Hinterlands, and you collected gossamer elfroot?” she hazarded, and dared to raise her eyes up to his face. His eyes were soft, and guileless, and it terrified her.

“It is a long time ago, but yes, I do remember. It seems as if it should have been important, but I can’t remember why,” he confessed. “Your aura glittered more than now, I believe.”

He had replied in Common… a small mercy, but it gave her courage to press on. “Solas. Do you remember about the orb, what happened to my hand?”

“Of course. I cut it off. Your death would have caused more senseless chaos, more destruction. It was unnecessary. The mark will still kill you, but you will have every comfort while you live.”

Even though she’d steeled herself for it, it hurt so much: his even tone, the indifference. The hurt that had lurked behind his eyes the last time that they’d met; the wounded pain; his broken heart – all gone.

“And Morrigan?” she managed to whisper, gripping the wine and flowers tightly.

“I will make her elvhen. She will be my bride and a fitting queen for Aratishan.”

 

“Do you think love failed, that you will call it that?” said Virla, choking back the tears.

“I don’t understand,” said Solas.

 

She shook her head, and blindly pointed at the window. “Who are they?”

“Shadows who will help build Aratishan. When Light comes, it will drive away all shadows. The People swore their lives to me, and I will do my duty. I must see to their needs. _Dareth shiral._ ”

It sounded, and was, final. She watched him drifting through the chamber, growing fainter as he stepped through the wall and wards to where she could not follow. There was a door, she thought, invisible, but there. Harder to make out through her tears, but if she closed her eyes and felt with magic, it was there.

When Morrigan woke, she refused to drink the wine, and Virla downed it. It was only later she realised that it had been laced with blood – _his blood –_ and that the mana in it was a warm and violet embrace.

  
  



	52. Plaideweave check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plaideweave’s worn by bandits, Carta, darkspawn… and Sera. Did you check _all_ the exits, Solas?

Morrigan was lying on her divan, eyes closed. Her head rested on a laurel-scented pillow, and she looked asleep. Perhaps she was, though Virla knew she faked it frequently, as escape from Solas’ patient coaching in elvhen history and manners, and even from her own clumsy attempts to shift into a raven form and fly.

Solas had not left the citadel again. Instead he spent three hours each afternoon with them, presenting himself to Morrigan for lessons and calmly playing chess with Virla when, as usual, she feigned sleep.

Virla was getting better at this variant. She was learning how it differed from the version of hexagonal chess they favoured in Ferelden, with only seven pawns a side. She’d watched Dorian and Cullen play this in Skyhold, but still – her scarce four weeks’ experience could scarcely hope to triumph over…

“How old is this variant of chess, Solas?”

When Solas wasn’t speaking and they were focused only on the game, it was easier to reconcile this sad reality with daydreams of what might have been. Now, as he looked up from contemplation of an ebon dragon knight, there was no answering gleam in his eyes. No acknowledgement that she might be trying to distract him; no dry chuckle; no shy smile. No attempt to teach _her_ elvhen manners. No lilt in his voice.

“It was invented fifteen years ago, in Minrathous,” he said, tonelessly.

“So recent? I saw it laid out at the Winter Palace, on all the sets. I don’t think Dorian did that.”

“A group of students in Val Royeaux read up on it. They introduced it to the Orlesian nobility.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it in the Fade,” he said. “The students and the nobles dreamed of chess. It excited them.”

His eyes were reminiscent of the Crow Fens: pools of stagnant grey. It was hard to imagine him now as commander of an army, and nothing about this citadel suggested war. Birds sang in the forest, people chiselled and hammered, building structures on which veilfire braziers could be hung, or spires of crystal.

“I think that you will win this game,” said Virla, as he exchanged their knights: his Tevinter dragon for her golden lion of Orlais. _Adieu… Alphonse et Xavier._ “Does that excite you, winning?”

“Chess is a game whose aim is to win. Therefore, I must seek to win. I take no joy in it.”

“Not even an intellectual satisfaction? A pride in doing whatever must be done, to win?”

“There is nothing to be proud of,” said Solas. “The pieces move to where they must, until it’s over.”

“While the music plays, we dance,” muttered Morrigan, then winced as Solas immediately stood up and left the game half-finished. His move, so Virla couldn’t even plan her own with perfect confidence.

He walked over, straight-backed in sombre elven robes, and sat beside Morrigan – a handsome prince of peace upon his throne of gold and white, and all uncaring. “ _Ne then, ‘ma asha._ _Ar dirth ma, var’landivalis._ ”

“I don’t want to hear about your beliefs today,” grumbled Morrigan. “My head hurts from the voices from the Well, and from this enforced incarceration. I need to rest.”

“ _Ma nuvenin,_ ” said Solas, when she closed her eyes again. He returned to his seat by Virla, and peaceful cogitation of his move. “ _Mana ena_ ,” he explained to both of them, or neither. _There will be time._

****

Another week passed, of mornings filled with maiden raven flights from wardrobe to shelf and back again around the gilded cage, and afternoons of queens and pawns, of pins and sacrifices. Solas’ explanation that the variant was relatively new had given her some hope that she might beat him. An entirely hollow victory, she expected, with the anticipation all on her side, and nothing real at stake. He would treat both triumph and disaster just the same. But still… another way to stave off absolute despair.

No unwarded doors or windows. Just four rooms: her own sparse closet; Morrigan’s chamber with its curtains round the bed, and books and games and ornaments; their wash-room; and the room she’d only dared explore three times, slipping through the magic just to prove she could. It was Solas’ bedchamber, it seemed, as plain as hers. The first time she had gone at night, and found him lying there, asleep, and had not dared to make a fuller exploration of the room. The second and third times she chose evenings when Morrigan lay abed with curtains closed, and she could see Solas walking among the trees and folk below. But the room had but a single window, just like hers, and that had wards as well.

No-one approached him on his perambulations, though she had recognised a few of those that looked up after he had passed, and watched his back. Abelas was here, though now unmarked by Mythal’s vallaslin; and some elves who had worked for the Inquisition; and even Soren, the hunter she’d grown up with in Lavellan. The wards prevented her from calling out to them, and presumably from seeing her: they thrummed with fearful power. An _ill feeling_ – as Cassandra had named it, years ago in Solasan. She’d have given much to see her there, among the elves. Or… anyone whose friendship she could utterly rely on.

This evening she looked out again, watching Solas’ progress. Always along the same calm path, unvarying.

Morrigan had not yet gone to bed, but had taken up a volume of elvhen poetry. She was keen enough to study it, just not to learn from Solas. Outside, the veilfire lanterns flickered from their posts, and groups of elvhen stood around them, separated by culture – and, perhaps, language – from the modern elves who sat on wooden benches by the aravels and wagons. For the thousandth time, she wondered what they talked about. From time to time, they gestured to the citadel, with expressions awed or furious or calm.

When they’d asked Solas about the elves outside, he said, “It does not matter,” to her; or _tel’nuvenin_ to Morrigan. Factual questions about where they were, or how many lived here, met with similar replies.

And then she saw her. _Sera._

Sera, hair under a hood, her favourite trews of plaideweave check discarded for a city elf’s disguise.

Sera, who would surely never have come here, except to find her. _Mythal is a ruin full of demons._

Sera, among so many elfy elves, talking quietly with Soren and a red-haired elven girl she didn’t know.

Sera, staying out of Solas’ line of sight, studying the citadel.

Sera – _really is, or was, Andruil. She’s my sister… help me call her Sera. Rituals are bad._

Taking a calming breath, she wished Morrigan good night, and went into her room. The pent-up pressures of the past few months found futile release in another bitter jag of crying. _Sera. Hope. It was so cruel._

****

Perhaps the wolf of her dreams took courage from her hope as well, for he seemed a shade less sorrowful, a fraction more accepting. She curled her body round the fennec form of Fen’sulevin, who’d had nothing pertinent to add for weeks, except to suggest the citadel was old. That much was obvious to her as well.

The next day she achieved a miracle – a stalemate, with Solas’ king, alone, unable to make a valid move.

She’d been concentrating so hard on the game that she actually smiled. “My first half point!”

Solas did not match her smile. “In this variant, stalemate is worth three-quarters of a point, not half.”

“Almost as good as a win,” she teased, leaning back as Morrigan frowned in irritation, eyes still closed.

“No,” he disagreed. “The difference is one quarter of a point.”

“If you take refuge in pedantry, then I claim a win in dialogue according to its rules,” said Virla.

“There are no rules for dialogue,” said Solas. “Conversation, yes, and social situations, but not dialogue. I have read more books than anyone alive, and have never heard of such a thing. It would be…”

He paused, and Virla waited, intrigued, to see what word his sundered mind would deem as optimal.

“…possible.”

“It would be… possible?” she echoed, surprised.

“Yes,” he said, his brow untroubled by the thought. “You appear to be the first to have conceived of such an idea, and therefore, it seems most fitting that you should set the rules and the reward.”

Virla laughed. “Does that mean that I win? And that I may choose a prize?”

He blinked at her, straight-faced. “It does. You may.”

“You should claim a kiss from him,” said Morrigan, bitterly. “The elven princess and her swamp frog.”

Virla glared at her. “He is _not_ a swamp frog,” she said. “Can’t you see how cruel this is?”

“I can, which is why I wonder why you bother. If you stayed away, I would not have to listen to you both.”

It was with difficulty she prevented herself from bringing magic to her hand, she was so angry. Instead, she stood up from her chair, and hissed. “I _love_ him, Morrigan. The world owes you a debt that no-one can repay, but it also owes him and me exactly that same debt. Whatever rules may now apply, in my mind we are equals here, and I will not have you disrespecting me or him, whatever all those voices tell you.”

Morrigan flushed, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Virla. I’m sorry that I brought you here. I thought…”

She trailed off, and Virla felt a pang of sympathy for her as well. “That was _my_ choice, Morrigan, not yours. But I think that I will go to my room, nonetheless. Thank you for the game, Solas.”

When she glanced back at the scene before she closed her door, she observed that Solas sat still by the chessboard, staring at her. For the very first time since they had first arrived, she had kept his attention, even with Morrigan awake. It seemed a sweeter victory than any stalemate. 

****

A few nights later, she was woken suddenly from her dreams by someone gripping her shoulder, whispering her name anxiously. There was an odd smell, too, a swampy, earthy…

“Virla, Virla. _Shit._ Wake up, please.”

She opened her eyes, still half-stupefied by sleep and looking for the silver wolf who sometimes came with dawn and waking. She blinked. Was this a dream as well, a demon come… no. It was… “Sera!”

Sera sank down beside the bed and put her arms around her as she sat up hastily – a clumsy embrace, but _by the Dread Wolf_ did it feel good. “I can’t believe you’re here,” whispered Virla. “What’s that?”

“Stuff that Widdle made for me, to get you out,” said Sera, squeezing her more tightly. Then she shrank back. “Are you… ok? Like, really? There’s lots of rumours in the camps. They say you’re like… his mistress. But I saw him. He’s all wrong, a wrong thing, just like Cole was at first… Some of them don’t see him.”

“But you do?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t want to, but I do. Scary rubbish. What happened? Are we safe to talk here?”

“The only people here are Solas and Morrigan, who I hope are both asleep. The spirit servants never come at night. How did you get in? Wait… Is everyone ok? Is Dorian? And Rector? Helsdim?”

“S’far as I know. Dorian’s in Minrathous. Some group of Venatori nutters set on you all. Bull was hot on their trail and the Chargers killed 'em. Rescued Dorian. You’d gone, though. Frigging scared, we were. Rector sent to Charter and _she_ told me to see if I could get where Fen’Harel’s elven spies had gone. Fen’Harel… right. I always _knew_ there was something creepy there. How’d he get you this time?”

“I should have told you, Sera. I’m sorry,” said Virla. “Solas didn’t capture me. I agreed to come.”

“Right, because that’s not weird. The Herald of Andraste. Trumpets. Frigging _glowing_. Anyway. I got here by climbing up the privy hole. Wards on it won’t let an _elvhen_ through – though Abelas did try – but they have to let out shit like me. And in. And hoverboots.”

“Hoverboots?” asked Virla, then… “ _Abelas?_ ”

“Hoverboots were Widdle, yeah? Genius. Sending crystal, she made ‘em, a Jenny brought them in. Spare pair there, ‘cos you can’t fly. Abelas hates Morrigan, says you have a purer spirit, or some such garbage. Arsehole. Still, he wants you to be queen, not her. Has got most of the elfy elves thinking that, as well.”

“The elvhen, or the elves like us?”

“I’m not like any of these elves,” grumbled Sera. “Fucking daft, the lot of them. What good’s a forest?”

“Sera…” warned Virla. “Did you have a plan?”

“Get you out, then make for… Skyhold? Or Val Royeaux, it’s closer. You’re still well in with Celene.”

“Leaving Morrigan here with Solas? I assume we’re in the Tirashan, then.”

Sera nodded, her anger quickly fading as she realised she would not have to persuade her into leaving now. “Smart, you. Only one spare pair of boots. Doubt she’d fit the privy. You’re too thin, like me.”

She took a moment to think. Morrigan was smart, had come here without much resistance through the…

“Morrigan can fly, Sera. Actually I can as well, though only for short distances. Hard to practise here.” She groaned, angry with herself. “I should have practised it while I had all that time in Skyhold, instead of…”

“You can do a dragon?” asked Sera, eyes suddenly alight with excitement that drove out the fear.

Virla shook her head. “Only small birds, like a raven. Dragons need… well, I’m not quite sure what, since no-one is prepared to tell me. But Morrigan could escape as well. We need to wake her up and ask her.”

****

Reluctantly, Sera agreed that Morrigan could be woken up, and asked. Virla had never seen the woman move so fast – they both changed into warm tunics for travelling, and hurried into the wash-room. Sera had levered off the wooden structure that sat above the privy hole, and the tunnel there was wider than she’d thought – tight, but not a squeeze. If they broke the wards, the ripples in the Veil would surely wake up Solas, sleeping in the hidden room nearby.

Morrigan did not seem surprised when Virla told her that she had explored there. _So many secrets._

She’d given herself no time to reconsider her decision. Whatever her desperate grief for Solas, there seemed no way she could help him here. She’d have to reconstruct the Inquisition, or some version of it, as an army who could fight against his plans and force him to change his mind. Or find Caritas and find a way to turn back time. Why stay, when every minute of each afternoon was pain and bitter gall?

No, she had to go. She couldn’t let down Sera, could she? As Virla reached for the hoverboots, brown and flat and unassuming, Morrigan frowned. “Where’s the third pair?” she hissed.

“We thought you could fly out,” said Virla.

“I can’t. It was the last thing my mother told me, when she visited me before the battle with Urthemiel…”

“You’re expecting a child,” said Virla, struck by sudden insight. “You really _were_ tired, weren’t you?”

“Don’t shapeshift when you’re carrying a baby,” said Morrigan, closing her eyes in disgust. “Apparently it causes terrible things to happen. The wisdom of Mythal, passed down through the ages.”

“It’s not Solas’ baby, is it?” asked Sera, backing away, and looking nervously from Morrigan to Virla. “That’s… ewww.”

Morrigan looked scornfully at her, while Virla felt her blood run cold, and shivered. “Do you think that I have so little regard for the Inquisitor, that I would sleep with her lover while we all were trapped here?”

“Dunno,” said Sera. “Maybe. So… whose is it, then?”

“I… don’t see that that’s any of your business. Though I will confirm that Solas is _not_ the father.”

Virla breathed again, and passed the hoverboots to Morrigan. “Put these on, then. I will try to fly.”  

She changed into a raven to fly down the tunnel, thankful for her altered sense of smell. At the foot, she pushed against the ward, but made no ground. After a minute she was joined by Morrigan and Sera, their descent slowed by the rune-enchanted boots. To their surprise, both of them could pass easily through the wards, with no alert, but no magic that Morrigan cast at them would allow Virla to pass through. Frustrated, she flew against them, like a bird against the Skyhold windows, hating its reflections. She squawked, angrily and in pain. Changing back to elven form had no effect. She could not escape.

“We’d better go back up,” said Morrigan, eventually and firmly.

When they got up to the wash-room, and Virla elven once again, she rubbed her head. Then she shook it. “You should go now, Morrigan. Go with Sera. Somewhere far away from here.”

Morrigan shook her head, then winced as if it brought on nausea. “I came because I needed sanctuary. Solas told me he could free me from the voices in the Well, but that it would take some time. _Vir uthsulahn –_ the path of endless singing. He said that he could bring it to an end, but I must be patient.”

“He told me that he meant you to be his bride,” said Virla. “To make you _elvhen_.”

Morrigan kept her voice low, insistent, holding Virla’s gaze. “I… have no desire for that. He says he plans to crush the world, and the voices from the Well tell me that it will be hard to stop him. They also say that I should stay with you now, if we are to have any chance of turning him away from his _din’anshiral_.”

“Path of destruction,” translated Virla, automatically, for Sera, who looked as if she wanted to go. Now.

“We standing here all night arguing, or can I take a piss before I go back down?” she grumbled.

****

Three nights later, Morrigan apparently changed her mind. Virla woke up early and went into the larger chamber, to find the pair of hoverboots gone, and no sign of her. Having checked their three rooms thoroughly, she found herself inching into Solas’ room. _Just you and me, until the end of time?_

He was still sleeping, his face relaxed and peaceful, almost smiling.

How often had she thought of this, to be near to him once more? She reached out with her absent arm, and stroked his cheek, and softly, _very_ softly, pressed a kiss upon his lips.

Magic sucked out from her arm, and twined around his mouth. She shrank back, terrified, as a hoarse whisper issued from his mouth, pitched with desperate longing. His eyes stayed closed in sleep.

“ _Vhenan?!_ ...Is that you? L… light a lamp, would you, Virlath? It’s so d… dark… and c…cold out here.”

  
  



	53. Anchoring velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anchor ring chess, or toral chess, is a variant where each edge of a standard chessboard is joined to its opposite edge, creating a shape like the surface of a doughnut (torus). The early game can be bloody, but endgames with few pieces left are more complex, with no edges to force the king against to constrain his freedom. Virla had an Anchor once, but now she is anchored only by the lilt of Solas’ velvet voice. NSFW.

Her first instinct was to check again that she was not still asleep. Was she being tricked by some cruel demon? But no, the world felt real. His aura had been just as she remembered it, the perfect fit to hers.

“Solas,” she breathed in response, eyes wide to watch the final waves of violet magic sink between his lips. Her left arm faded to obscurity again. “Can you hear me? Your voice… it’s not…”

“ _Vhenan._ At last! I... I c… can hear you. I can… _always_ … hear you. But I can’t… see. Can’t… move. Trapped in c… cold and dark. I stored… the magic with… Erasthenes… for this. Don’t… have… much… time! An hour, at the m… most. He’ll sleep, while we talk. After that, I c… can’t speak with you. Can only hear.”

His voice was barely audible at times, as if choked, but hummed with emotions that struck to her heart. Ignoring the tears that trickled down her cheeks, she whispered back, “ _Ar lath ma, vhenan. Ar halani.”_

“You… always… help me. So brave. I don’t… d… deserve… you. I _never_ deserve you. My l…love…”

“You said it’s cold and dark. Are you in the Fade? The silver wolf I see there, is that you?”

“A s…silver wolf?” he asked, his lips still barely moving. “N… not huge and black?”

“Like the mural of the Dread Wolf in the Darvaarad? No, not like that. Handsome, silver, solemn, sad. He watches me, but when I come close, he vanishes into nothing. Most often just before I wake.”

She could hear him taking a long deep breath, for courage. “A… dawn wolf. Then… that must be me. I can’t see anything, any more. So… alone. No p… paths. No p… pride. Just m… memory and… d… d…”

“Desire?” asked Virla, softly, remembering the fresco.

“D… desire,” he echoed, voice breaking slightly. “So s… strange, to not have p… pride. Am I really me?”

It was almost as if he were talking in his sleep. “Focus, Solas. Does it feel like you have all your memories?”

“I remember all… all the people I have loved. I remember _you_. He doesn’t. I h… had to take his memories of you, so I would not forget. He remembers that he needs to save them, and cannot d… deviate from p…purposes s… set in motion when I brought forth the Veil, to save our people. Let me be your heart!”

“You are my heart,” said Virla, leaning forward. Then she stopped. “Who do you mean by _our people_?”

“Everyone,” whispered Solas. “Dalish, humans, elvhen, spirits, animals, even the Qunari. I was wrong. There is a way, I think. A feeling. I c… can’t be certain. Hard to explain. M… maybe it’s n… not too late!”

“I don’t know what is more strange, Solas: the way you’re talking, or that you can’t explain your plan.”

He groaned. “I can’t. He can. I am the Fade, it’s all in images. Emotions. Too many! Lost! _Ma’desen!_ ”

She pressed another soft kiss upon his lips. “ _Vhenan_ , _calm down._ I’m here. Paint me a picture.”

“Was that a k… kiss? D… deeper, for me to feel it. W… w… wet. Mana in the blood and water.”

His mouth was slightly open, with lips soft pink in grey dawn light, his head turned on its side; his left arm uncovered by the soft white blanket. Just enough space beside him to lie down. _Okay. Well, this is weird._

Virla knelt on the blanket, and levered herself down carefully on her right arm, her back to him, then twisted around to face him. She put her hand on top of his. “Can you feel that? I’m holding your hand.”

“I can feel your aura, n… nothing else. M… maybe a little warmer? Are we on a bed?”

“Your bed. Now shush. I’ll try to kiss you. I’m not… very experienced in this, so sorry if it…”

Gingerly, she put out her tongue and eased it in between his unresponsive lips. She tried to remember how he had kissed her, standing on her balcony, the passionate flame springing between them, rainbow sunbeams. So good to taste again the half-forgotten honey of his magic. She licked his tongue from tip to base, along his lips, and hoped that her attempts felt deft and practised, not a clumsy hungry muddle.

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he whispered, as she drew away, unsure. “That was beautiful. Warm. If I could hold you…”

“You said we don’t have long,” she muttered, stricken. “If I kissed him, after then, would you feel it?”

“I think so, yes. I can always t… taste.” He sounded excited: “You would be p… prepared to do that?”

She thought about it. “Yes, if he were willing. It seems like… taking advantage. If he’s not interested.”

“It fits,” he whispered. “The plan, there was a book… I wrote it, before… I remember now.”

“What book?”

“I’m trying to... Before it all fell. A red clasp. Abelas m… might remember. K… kiss me. It h… helps.”

She complied, and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure. She wondered what images were floating in his mind: statues, or memories of her, or geometry? _Ne’emma lath,_ he murmured, time immaterial.

Laying her head on the pillow again, she sighed. “I can’t get out of here, to ask him.”

“You could ask the other me to ask. Or Morrigan? The voices from the Vir’Abelasan...”

A thread of panic laced through the fog of confusion and desire, wholly real and hers. “Can the other you hear us right now?”

“Dreaming, trying to track me down. His body can hear you, but he can’t.”

This him sounded much like Cole once had. “I understand. Then I can tell you: Morrigan has gone.”

“Gone? But… who dr… drank the wine left for Morrigan?”

This was not the time to lie. “I did. Why did it have your blood and magic in it? I only realised later.”

A long pause, during which she feared he’d gone. Then, another shaky breath. “You… do change everything. I c… can see more now. You are right. You must persuade him. Cannot take advantage. Use the book. Both have… to d… die. Cut to let the b… blood out. But p… perhaps…”

Pleading for him to make sense would get her nowhere. Instead she pressed another kiss on him, stroking along his face from ear to jaw, feathering over his cheekbones, and licking round his mouth until he moaned. Sweet magic trickled from his aura into hers, like snowflakes on a summer’s day.

“ _F… fenedhis lasa,”_ he said, as she pulled back. He sounded agitated. His sleeping body adjusted so that he lay on his back, presumably dictated by the other him. Not unconscious, then, but deeply slumbering?

Virla continued stroking his face, comforting herself as much as him. “Be calm, _vhenan._ I’ll find the book.”

“N… no, you don’t understand. M… mana in the blood and water. Water, not blood.”

“The blood in the wine should be water?”

“No, d… don’t need wine.” A breathy laugh escaped him. “What I said at Halamshiral. Heady blend.”

Her cheeks grew slightly hotter. “I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger and sex…”

He chuckled softly, as she paused. “…that permeates…”

“…that permeates these events. Do you…”

“…have any interest…”

“…in dancing? A great deal,” she finished, easing the blanket out from underneath her with some difficulty. “Although dancing with an elven apostate would win you few favours with the court.”

“That’s h… his problem, surely,” he said, as she twitched the blanket off him, heart fluttering wildly.

At Skyhold and in camps he had worn a shirt and leggings, even overnight. She’d never seen him bathing. Here, he only wore some kind of elvhen nightshirt, falling to mid-thigh. His legs were perfect, long and pale and muscular… and hers. _For now,_ she reminded herself. _I must not take advantage, later._

“And mine. So let me get this straight.”

“D… do it right, it will be,” he said, and she felt the blush creep down her neck.  

“You do mean me to… to…”

“I remember… that… you used to blush,” said Solas, softly. “I can feel your aura trembling. It’s all right, my heart. Just t… try it now. Your m… mouth. Long and slow and gentle. You can do it. S… suck _‘ma edhis._ ”

_Fenedhis lasa. So it **had** retained its dual meaning, over all those years. _

“You have such beautiful legs,” she murmured, turning herself so her knees were by his chest and she could use her one good arm to prop her up, once she had lifted his nightshirt up out of the way. “Oh!”

“Oh? What is it, _vhenan_?”

“You’re very hard already. Gorgeous,” she reassured him. All this was very strange, but oddly tender.

“It has been… a long time…” His voice trailed off, embarrassed. “Have you done this b… before, my love?”

“I haven’t,” she admitted. “But when someone’s orb gives you an anchor, it also gives you dreams.”

“Virlath, are you s… sure about this?” he asked, voice now very low. “I would never f… force you, but…”

“You’re not a demon, Solas.”

“I could be,” he whispered, then whimpered as she flicked her tongue in a tentative lick across his tip.

“But you’re _not_ ,” she insisted, and took him gently in her mouth, gradually drawing him deeper.

She didn’t really have a good idea of how this worked, far less of how much he could actually feel. The lyrical Elvish escaping in harsh whispers from his mouth suggested something good… _ah! felas! felas!_...

It seemed that elvhen liked their _lasa_ slow and sweet, like everything in Arlathan. She licked around him, enjoying the honeyed sensation of his aura in her mouth; sweeping her tongue up and down and listening as his gasps rose higher. She remembered how he’d pleasured _her_ ; how they’d slept within each other’s arms for far too few nights in the Fade. Her bitter loneliness seemed like the dream, not this.

A hot wave of arousal swept through her. Harsh breaths passed through between his sleeping lips. She recalled his mouth on her, the Fade nights where he’d thrust her up against a tree. Then he howled.

She stopped, startled, his hot and heavy cock still in her mouth, suddenly imagining the silver wolf that she’d seen in the Fade. Years of reflexes stiffened every muscle in her body. The howl died out into sudden silence, as he softened, wetly. She pulled away, the taste like embrium honey in her mouth.

“ _Fenedhis lasa,_ Fen’Harel,” she murmured. “What _are_ you, really?”

“You’ll see, tonight,” he whispered. “ _Ma serannas, ‘ma vhenan._ That was… everything. Now, what next?”

Her face was already flushed with desire, not that he could see it, and to her surprise his cock was stiffening again. Could he feel her aura? She leant closer, gaining confidence, and licked across his lips.

“Do you want to be… inside me?” she asked, shying away from the intimacy of asking it in Elvish.

“W… we mustn’t,” came the immediate response. He sighed, a cold breath on her face. “It isn’t right.”

“Why not? Because of him?”

“P… partly. The dance has many steps. You are elvhen now. Do this f… for him. The b… book. Wait until your eyes turn golden. He’ll lead you to the mirror. When you p… pass through he’ll chase you, and…”

“My eyes? Why would they turn…” She swallowed hard, still tasting afterglow and embrium. “Is it like… in the fresco runes? _I think of you and Razikale. It’s only then I weep._ ”

“What fresco runes?”

Her blood turned to ice, and she had to clamp down on a choking cough, the taste in her mouth now more like bitter elfroot. She got off the bed, and drew the blanket back over him. “D… don’t you remember?”

His voice turned colder too, as he repeated it: “What fresco runes, Virlath?”

He sounded like he’d sounded in his gilded armour, many weeks ago: harsh pain in his voice. _An eternity of torment… running out of time…_ She wanted to respond, but words stuck in her throat, like the seed of a wolf whose cock she’d sucked. She shuddered, imagining her friends’ sarcastic comments if they knew.

“ _Dirth ma, vhenan,_ ” he whispered once more, and she could hear that he was trying to sound gentle. “We are… running out of time again.”

“Dagna saw them, underneath the fresco,” she managed. “In ancient elven veilfire. I translated them. Stories from you, underneath the plaster, in the stone. Or… so I thought. Letters to me, signed by Solas. One by Fen’Harel. He also said that he was Dirthamen. He said… that he had defeated five archdemons...”

“He… he… called _himself_ Fen’Harel?” Solas’ whisper sounded shocked. “But… then… he’s alive!”

“It was not you that wrote them, then?” She was shivering now, bare feet cold on the stone floor.  

“He… c… can’t be… alive! The orb… it was… d… d… destroyed. How… is that… even p… p… p…?”

He was stuttering wildly now, and she could barely make out the words. With a hollow laugh at herself, she knelt down once again on the bed, and licked inside his mouth. Now that she paid attention, she could feel the sharpness of his aura when she ran her tongue along his teeth – more teeth than any normal elf.

“ _Ma ser… serannas…_ Listen, _vhenan!_ I see it all,” he said, as she drew back. His voice rang with joy. “There _is_ a path… _vir lath_ , _var lath vir suledin._ You were right, and I was wrong again. But then, I had to be…”

He broke off into breathy chuckles. She sighed, sitting up. “You’re babbling, Solas. What do I need to do?”

“You’re right. We have v… very little time. Use the b… book. But don’t let him use blood. Don’t let him k… kill you. Or anyone, if p… possible. Do… what you did, just now. To him. _Fenedhis lasa._ It will be terrifying. R… risky. You will need… a safe word. Like Bull and Dorian. I need… _edhas lasa…_ ”

“Now?” she whispered. _Gods, am I insane?_

“Soon. You’ll tell me your safe word, while I… ea… ea… lick you. Kneel down at the foot of the bed, head down, eyes closed. No cl… clothes. Wait for him to wake. Don’t move, until he touches you. Then sit up, eyes still closed, and say… _halam’shivanas_ , _lasa ghilan_. It means… that you c… consent to be his mistress.”

“But he’s tranquil. He has no interest in that!”

“No, he doesn’t,” he agreed, sounding resigned rather than bitter. “But he is bound by duty. It is your right to ask, and he will not refuse. It is… an honourable thing, in elvhen culture, for someone to relieve the b… bodily urges of a soldier. Virtuous. Tell him the same safe word that you tell me. If you say it, he will st… stop. If you have to say it seven times, he will let you go. B… but you’ll never see him again, or me.”

“Does that mean that the world will die? M… my… our people?”

“I d… don’t know. There m… may be other p… paths. But you would n… never hear from m… me, again.”

“You said it will be t… terrifying,” said Virla, wishing that he had the strength to wrap his arms around her.

“My heart. You have never slept with a man, before. You are very young. I b… believe that you c… can do this, just as you defeated C… Corypheus and were so v… very brave to c… come here. But still…”

She waited, heart pounding, as he sighed. Then he chuckled, faintly, saying: “It is p… possible that you m… might enjoy it, b… but it is h… hard for me to hope. You understand?”

“I’m not sure that I do. But if it is the only way…?”

“He will wake up with your taste on his mouth. I took our m… memories of you. I’ll take this conversation too. He has been starved for m… millennia, and you will be a m… mystery. J… just like you were, to me. He is not… quite… tranquil, yet. B… but it will g… get worse. Each time you s… suck him, he will grow p… prouder, harsher, and my d… desire for you will grow. Your dr… dreams will be… well. You’ll see.”

“Should I let him…”

“The b… book will explain. Just… no blood.” A harsh intake of breath. “You need to strip. Now. Let me t… taste you. The Veil is still… entangled in you. That’s why this w… works. Choose… a word.”

Her mind went blank, as she pulled off her tunic and unwrapped the bindings from her breasts. Pink light slanted through the window of the bare room in the citadel, making her skin seem rosy once again. Outside, birds sang. The leggings came off easily. Fear and lack of meat had made her thinner.  

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he whispered, as she tugged to free the final, lower bindings. “ _Ar lath ma._ It is hard to b… believe that you still trust me. I’ve been s… so alone. I told myself I c… could not d… do this to you. But n… now my p… pride is his, I know he c… can’t do this without you. My love, d… don’t forget me.”

“It’s hard to believe for me as well,” she agreed, positioning herself with a knee on either side of his head, and letting her fingers trace along his cheekbone to his parted lips. “There’s a part of my mind that’s wondering what the Void I’m doing, letting a Fade wolf fall in love with me, letting him… aaaaah...”

His tongue teased at her clit, colder and wetter than she had imagined it. When she closed her eyes, and focused on their auras, she could see an image of herself kneeling naked in the snow, thrusting forwards as a silver wolf sucked hungrily between her legs. His eyes were on her breasts, watching as they swayed.

She took hold of his sharp ears with both hands – one real, one remembered – to guide him deeper as she bucked, her bare knees sinking into snow and pillows. The right hand felt warm skin; the left hand cold, damp fur. Something was pulling at her memories, doubling them and breaking them free, sucking them from her mind into her cunt, where he drank them greedily. It felt… incredible, like when the power of the orb had filled her. Tingling, even painful, but in a way that made her want to beg for more.

With an effort, she opened her eyes, and realised that his eyes were open, glowing. The shock brought back the purpose to her mind, and she gasped out a word for them to use. “ _Parshaara_.”

Immediately the light died in his eyes. They closed, and his tongue sank back into his mouth.

She waited for him to say something, whispered “Solas?”, but nothing emerged. Closing her eyes, she saw the image of a wolf slowly padding away, leaving only memories on the snow… no blood, no paw prints. When he reached the horizon, he looked back and waited, just like she remembered him before: with a yearning that she knew echoed her own. Then he vanished into nothing once again.

Her heart ached, and then she remembered that he _could_ still hear her. “I’ll do my best,” she whispered.

His body was beginning to wake up, so she scrambled off him hastily, and ran to the foot of the bed. She knelt down on the floor in a patch of sunlight, her bare breasts pressed against her knees: feeling very vulnerable. Warm saliva slowly dripped onto her soles, just as a loud crash sounded from a room nearby.

She listened intently, her eyes obediently closed, her heart still racing, to the sounds of Solas – tranquil, powerful, elvhen prince not Fade-wolf – getting up and walking quickly straight out of the room.

 _Fenedhis,_ thought Virla, wildly. _Did he even see me here?_

  
  



	54. Concubine in silken nether cloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fairy chess piece which can move both like a knight and like a rook has [had many names](http://www.chessvariants.com/piececlopedia.dir/rook-knight.html) over the years. Called a champion in the seventeenth century and a concubine in the eighteenth, its most common names since then have been as marshal (cavalry commander), chancellor and empress. Briefly, it was a wolf… so perhaps there is hope for Virla and Solas yet. As might be expected from the title, NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 3000 hits now, and 114 kudos, wow! Thank you all very much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. I hope you like this chapter too.

He was only gone maybe a quarter of an hour, but it seemed an age to Virla. Time to realise that he _hadn’t_ gone through the door she knew about. Time to wonder what had caused the crash, and what had caused the fracture in his being; time to shiver, naked, on the cold stone floor, and to doubt her memories of the broken warmth within his voice. Time to replay the shock she’d felt as he’d howled; to worry over what else might have heard it. Time to fret about the fresco, and to think of other questions to have asked.

She wasn’t sure which memory was worse: what she’d just done, or that he was gone again.

With all the dreams of demons, the fleeting nights of passion in the Fade, she’d only been kissed three times in reality. By anyone; and all by him. Skyhold, Crestwood and by that huge eluvian – and he’d never stayed around to laugh and smile and hold her afterwards.

And now he’d let her kiss his real lips, and swallow his… and she’d let him run his real tongue between her legs, and let him lick and suck, and… he’d been asleep, and not asleep, feeling/unfeeling, an elf, a wolf… and she’d not been dreaming, but also not entirely awake. _The Veil is still… entangled in you._

And she wanted Solas to come back, the _real_ him, whichever that was, and… and…

_I want you to be… inside me. I want to feel you move in me, and make you howl again with love._

_I want… you to hold me in your arms. I want a hug. I want someone to… **tell** about this all._

****

Someone was coming; she could hear voices. The Veil sang softly as they breached the wards.

“Honoured Fen’Harel, I do not know why the Lady Morrigan has gone, nor why this... halla was able to enter into the sacred...”

The voice – Abelas? – trailed off into a quiet gasp of surprise, and Virla stifled another of her own that she had understood the ancient elven dialect he’d spoken in. _Did I just swallow the secret of his language?_

“Can you explain this?” asked Solas, the one whose voice had no lilt, no desire.

“She is… elvhen,” whispered Abelas. He sounded awestruck. “Foretold, and yet, I did not know the hour.”

It sounded like both of them were kneeling down: one close, in front of her; and one further back and to the side. Then she felt warm hands pressing on her hair, murmuring ancient elvhen words, perhaps some kind of benediction? It was Solas – well, one of him, at least: his scent of books and elfroot, and his aura.

She kept eyes devoutly closed and resisted the urge to cover her body with her arm as she sat up.

“ _Halam’shivanas_ , _lasa ghilan_ ,” she said, obedient to her instructions from the wolf who could still _hear_.

In the pause that followed, she wondered how many times he or Abelas had seen this ritual before, how many mistresses he’d accepted, and which of them this one remembered.

“Guidance will be given, honoured elvhen. I accept your duty,” said Solas. She felt him tying a strip of cloth around her eyes, then wrapping her in – the unused silken coverlet stowed beneath the bed, she guessed, wrapped under her arms and falling to her knees. She remembered one with a similar feel from her room, not used in this summer heat. His fingers brushed her breasts as he secured it: she shivered at the contact.

“Follow,” said Solas. “You will wait with Abelas until I call.”

A hand in a leather glove assisted her to stand, then ushered her through where she remembered there had been a wall before. The wards sealed again behind them. This time she could hear the faintest of grinding noises, stone against stone. Presumably a hidden sliding wall, like in the Temple of Mythal.

She was guided down steps and corridors and then encouraged to sit down upon what felt like a cushioned bench, the velvet soft beneath her hand. The blindfold was tied tight enough that she could see very little, but the lack of light filtering through it suggested there were few windows. She closed her eyes again, to better sense the nature of the Veil. With a start she realised something was whispering nearby.

“…gossamer elfroot. He said that you might be able to hear my thoughts, and asked me that I focus on three things: maraas-lok and gossamer elfroot, and that he begs your forgiveness. I am sorry too. I dare not speak out loud. My lady, if you can hear me, place your hand upon your left knee. Maraas-lok and…”

She moved quickly to put her hand on the opposite knee as he had suggested, and felt a sigh of wonder escape from up and to her left. Abelas’ meditative recitation shattered into rapid ecstatic pulses.

“…she is so beautiful, how long has it been to see a fertile elvhen queen, it is… I am sorry, my lady, he said I should not be embarrassed for my thoughts because you are very kind, but it is not appropriate. This duty is for female elvhen. But there is none now who we can trust who knows the proper rituals who I might suggest to Fen’Harel. He said he trusted me to do this duty. We both cried… he cried dark tears before the split took hold again, longing to be here with you. How can I… we all beg your forgiveness, my lady. Maraas-lok and gossamer elfroot, and begging your forgiveness…”

Reminders of the dragon blood she’d drunk for courage to pursue him, years ago, and the gossamer elfroot’s strength in apparent fragility; and proof that he had truly come from Solas. With no idea who else was listening, she dared not comfort him out loud, but stroked the silk that lay upon on her knee. Perhaps he might interpret her silence as a blessing. She tried to feel calm and kind, and in control, the coverlet a kind of armour, but her heart was pounding. Good to know that Abelas was on her side. Her experience of elvhen rituals encompassed both labyrinths and geas magic. Purity, respect, control…

Sex. This was going to involve sex. Virla breathed deeply, trying to prevent her mind from drifting.

_What will be, will be._

Sooner than she had expected, the summons came. Abelas led her forward, pulling a curtain closed behind them. He placed her hand on a golden rail then proceeded to remove both coverlet and blindfold. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. The chamber was a black and silver version of the Vir Dirthara, lined with rows of books that rose from floor to ceiling, glittering mosaic tiles marking out each shelf.

“Measure her, Abelas,” came a calm voice from one side, and she followed its direction with her eyes.

Solas was sitting in a high-backed throne behind a desk on a dais about twelve feet away. His skin looked grey against the white silk nightshirt; his eyes were hidden behind a pair of glass lenses held with gold, and he did not look up. Virla watched him flick through a massive tome that lay upon the desk, and turn to a roll of parchment on which he was scribing something. Her eyes were level with the underside of the desk, so it was impossible to avoid seeing his obvious erection, but he appeared entirely unconscious of it.  

She flushed, and drew her gaze away. It was not right, to stare at him. Abelas, trembling slightly, recorded the colour of her eyes and hair. Then he drew a marked black silken cord out of a drawer and measured around her waist, her hips, her breasts, her neck. Each time, he called out numbers, which she could hear Solas writing down upon the parchment. Abelas then measured her height, letting the cord fall vertically.

“Five hundred and one for height.” The sentinel bowed his head and retreated hurriedly from her.

“You are small,” said Solas. “How old are you, Virla?”

“I am twenty-two years old,” she replied, turning her head to look at him. _Had he ever known that?_

He still did not look up at her, but turned some pages in the book. “Then that explains it. You will grow. Our rules state you must study for another seventy-eight years. Return when you are a hundred years.”

The cases of books swam around her, circling in years of dust and death, destruction of the world and of my people. Virla held on to the rail for balance, as Solas got up from his throne and closed the book, its red clasp visible. She wondered, dully, what the _other_ him was thinking, as he listened from the Fade.

Then she felt a surge of anger pierce the Veil as Abelas stormed up to the desk. “Can’t you sense that she is not a child? She is _ready,_ more than ready, for this. You are gravely ill. We do not have time to wait!”

The elvhen sentinel appeared to have taken himself by surprise, for he fell to the floor in horrified obeisance. Solas ignored him, and for the first time looked up at Virla. She bit her lip, pleading in her eyes for him to see her, feel what she was feeling, to show she could be what he needed, what they needed.

“I might waive the requirement of age,” he concluded, sitting down again. “There are provisions for this, provided certain other tests are made. Abelas, you are not finished with the measurements.”

Abelas raised his head from the floor, and swallowed, hard. “Is this… necessary, my lord?”

“Yes,” said Solas, opening the book again. “It is necessary. Please, proceed.”

“My lady,” said Abelas, looking anywhere but at her, “you need to kneel down on this footstool, and put your hands – your hand – on this marked tile. We regret that no suitable female is available for this.”

The footstool in question was covered in a tapestry of crimson and white and emerald silk threads, and was comfortable enough, although stretching to reach the mark was more difficult. She felt she should be grateful that neither of them seemed to think her lack of one forearm disqualified her either. It was hard to balance, and she closed her eyes to focus on it better. Suddenly Abelas’ voice was audible in her mind.

“…so beautiful, I _can’t_ do this, I _must_ , my hands are shaking so I can’t remove the… ah, my glove is off, now I must… slide… carefully… my finger, just one finger, in…” 

Her eyes flew open again. She tensed, realising the sentinel had knelt behind her, and though he had not dared to touch her yet, it was more than clear what he had been required to do. She felt a finger stroke gently over her clit, and looked over her left shoulder at Abelas. He had his eyes closed, visibly shaking, and the fact that he felt more ashamed at this than she did gave her courage to voice her compassion.

“It’s ok, Abelas,” she said. “I am sure you will be as gentle as any female would be.”

He nodded, not opening his eyes, and moved his finger backwards, pressing carefully until he found her opening. Less than an hour ago she had been licked most thoroughly by the tongue of the man who now sat, emotionless yet aroused, behind a desk, wearing spectacles and a silken nightshirt. She was glad of the preparation now, as Abelas’ finger slid in gently. It felt a little painful, and her muscles clenched around him, but it was not wholly unpleasant either. The finger slid out. She was focusing on trying to ignore the discomfort at the base of her spine caused by this position, when she felt two large elvhen fingers trying to fit inside her. This was more painful, and she could not help but wince.

The hand was swiftly withdrawn. “J… just one,” said Abelas, and Solas wrote that down as well.

“Appropriately chaste,” said Solas, standing up and walking over. “That is acceptable. We start with one.”

She craned her neck to watch as he conjured a wisp from the air. It nestled around his right index finger, a thin layer of bluish magic overlaying pale skin. He directed it to form a glowing replica of his finger, which sank to her eye-level. Hard to focus on it and not the scent and shape of him within his silken nightshirt.

“We will place this in your _edhas_ , Virla,” said Solas, as if reciting familiar words from memory. “It will stimulate you slowly to be ready for duty. Do not be ashamed of your emotions, for you are pure. If your desires become impure beyond redemption, I will use power drawn from the unchanging world to turn you to stone, where you will be honoured for your faith. If you wish to lay aside this duty for a time, you must tell me immediately. If you lay aside your duty seven times, you will be exiled. Do you understand?”

She thought it through, briefly closing her eyes to see if she could reach Abelas’ thoughts again.

But it seemed he was too far away, and she was on her own. “Yes, I understand,” she said, slowly, painfully raising her head to meet his eyes. “If I wish to lay aside my duty, I will say _Parshaara_.”

“The language of dragons. A very appropriate choice,” said Solas. He waved his hand and the wisp flew round, slipping inside her and beginning to pulse up and down. It felt a little larger than Abelas’ finger, but the movements were more confident; far more erotic. As he strode back to his desk, and started to read a smaller tome beside the large one, she dropped her head to look at the tiled patterns on the floor, her dyed fair hair falling around her face to hide her suddenly flushed cheeks. _How long will they…_

“You may stand if you find it more comfortable,” put in Abelas, as the minutes ticked on. He was facing one of the bookshelves, clearly wishing he were miles – or _centuries –_ away.

With some difficulty Virla got to her feet, conscious of the blush tinting her cheeks and neck and breasts. The continuing gyrations of the wisp meant she had to keep her feet slightly apart as she held on to the nearby golden rail. Sometimes it moved slowly, dragging out the pleasure; and sometimes it thrust quickly, making her clench her hand around the rail and bite her lip so she did not cry out.

She thought of Solas listening from the Fade, hot with desire for her, and longed to run across and sit upon his lap and kiss him. Was that an impure desire? She had no idea. It was hard to imagine this cold, impassive prince turning anything to stone; yet… what if the book demanded it, for some arcane reason?

Eventually, and just when she was sure that she _must_ cry out, or fall to her knees and howl from the blossoming pleasure _the shape of that finger he just licked_ was creating, Solas looked up from his reading.

“Do you know what this tome is, or how I came by it?”

She shook her head, aware that the only sound she could make right now would be a desperate moan.

“It is a testimonial of the deeds of Virlath Al’var Lavellan, Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor, brought to me by a noble golden halla. You are Virlath Al’var Lavellan, are you not? Speak, I need to hear you.”

“Yes… aaaaah… yes, I am,” she managed. “Might… ah!... the halla be… the one we call Hanal’ghilan?”

“Tell me of this Hanal’ghilan,” said Solas, licking his finger again to turn the page; pushing his lenses up.

That he wasn’t looking at her helped, as did the wisp’s abrupt transition back to its slow phase. She knew that if she felt between her legs she would be sopping wet, aroused more effectively than she’d ever managed on her own, or even earlier today. Thrusting this from her mind, and focusing on explaining clearly, she told the Dalish legends of the golden halla, that she came to the elves in times of great need; described her golden-white flanks and long brown horns; and spoke of how she’d met her twice – once to bring her to her Clan Al’var, and once near his old sanctuary.

“Thank you. You have told me what I needed. Abelas, it seems appropriate that the noble beast that broke into our library should remain within our garden for my lady Virla to ride, should she desire.”

 _I want to ride **you** , _thought Virla helplessly, then pushed away the thought. _He is not interested. It’s wrong!_

Solas continued, his tone unvarying: “On the evidence of this tome, I would have to accept that you have passed the requirements for compassion, diligence, discipline, generosity, integrity, mercy, temperance, valour and wisdom. Abelas, I do not believe there is a need for you to cross-check the evidence presented, given the nature of its delivery. I have already seen sufficient evidence today of chastity and humility.”

Abelas turned and bowed to his lord, a surprised but relieved expression on his face. It made her wonder how long these examinations had taken in Arlathan. _What happened to those who failed?_

Virla waited, patiently, now more conscious of that patience, wondering if love was a requirement too. The wisp pulsed fast again, making her want to throw herself at his feet: beg for him to hold her, lick her.

Instead, she watched silently as Solas retrieved a goblet and a silver dagger from a narrow cupboard hidden between bookshelves. He carried them to Abelas, and suddenly she realised that he looked _much_ older, his movements slow and heavy, skin greying by the minute.

“How long do I have?” he asked.

  
  



	55. Snoufleur avalanche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pawn avalanche is an example of a technique where a series of small steps all come together in a decisive attack. Fade-touched snoufleur skin is good for healing, which this pair might well need. Still NSFW.

Abelas was taking Solas’ pulse at the juncture of his collarbone, laid bare by the open neck of his white silk nightshirt. A nearby veilfire brazier cast twin shadows across the marble floor to where Virla had fallen to her knees, nude and with the wisp’s magic still thrusting vigorously, _preparing_ her as directed.

She was so slick now that she could not ignore the obscene noises made each time the solid pulse of magic pressed in and out, and only the thought of _being petrified for impure desire_ prevented her from running her hand through her hair, over her face and breasts and downwards, to circle her own fingers round her clit and seek release. Her heart was racing. She’d never seriously tried to make herself come, fearing it would give the demons more to taunt her with; all this was new, and terrifying in its strength.

“No more than two hours more, my lord,” said Abelas. “You must remove the fire in your blood by noon.”

“To live?” gasped Virla, suddenly realising the purpose of the dagger. _Don’t let him use blood._  

Solas passed the goblet and dagger to Abelas, and strode over, towering beside her by the side of the golden rail, eyes stony grey. He pressed his fingers together, and the wisp squeezed out, not at all quietly.  Virla wanted to sink through the floor: bare legs, dripping slit, taut nipples, crimson cheeks and all.

Ice-cold hands reached out to pull her up by the waist, his aura as controlled as hers was turbulent with longing. She fixed her eyes on his collarbone, imagining his heart beat there.

“Virla, this hastiness is unfortunate but necessary. When Elvhenan was at its height, it would have taken centuries to court you properly. Yet as you heard from Abelas, we have little time. You have satisfied the requirements of our traditions to be taken by me. Do you consent for me to take you to a bedchamber?”

“I… I… yes, yes, I do,” she stammered, her mind a sudden, shining blank. _Oh gods, please take me._

“I will explain when we are there. Abelas, please enter in an hour. Prepare the wine.”

Before she realised what he was about to do, he had swept her up in his arms, and was walking swiftly towards a bookshelf opposite the curtained opening they had entered by. She laid her head against his shoulder and breathed in his scent; the calmness of his aura a deep baritone counterpoint to the descants of her need and terror. She _wanted_ him, and whatever duty called her here, it was her choice as well.

The bookshelf slid aside, and she clamped her eyes shut against the widening strip of sunlight. Slowly, she opened them again, seeing that this new room was a large one: warm, bright, high and vaulted, with tall windows across one wall. They looked into a garden melding into forest, and in the distance she glimpsed a flash of golden-white: Hanal’ghilan? Shards of glass lay scattered far across the floor at one end, perhaps the source of the crash she’d heard while kneeling on his chamber floor, an outline of a halla.

As the wall closed again behind them, Solas carried her to the ample and beautifully carved bed, its soft green blankets and fade-touched snoufleur pelts rolled back to reveal pristine white sheets and pillows.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, settling her sideways in his lap, her severed arm close to his chest. Virla could feel the heat and hardness of him against her thighs, through his silken shirt. She stared at her remaining hand, shivering, clutching at the collar of his shirt, and felt his arms tighten round her.

“Beloved, look at me,” he said, still speaking in the ancient elven dialect he’d used since he awoke.

 _Beloved._ She fancied she heard the hint of a lilt in his voice, and dared to raise her eyes to meet his. This close, his pallor was evident, his freckles darker in contrast than they had been earlier this morning. It sent a sharp shock through her: vertiginous fear of losing him again; prescient grief. _In peace, vigilance._

“I want to help you,” she said, detaching her hand and lifting it to stroke against his cheek.

He accepted the caress without a flicker of emotion. “Thank you, that is appropriate. Here is what must be done. First, I will assist you to empty yourself of passion. Then Abelas will help us drain my blood into ritual wine for you to drink. This will assist me to regain the emotions that I am suppressing, with you controlling them directly for as long as needed. Once you have drunk all my blood, I will return to my pure form: Solas. Though this world must die, I will restore the world of the elves and you will reign with me.”  

She sifted through this madness. “Your pure form is a spirit of pride? Are you an unbound revenant?”

“I am not unbound now, but will become so. My blood is corrupted by blighted desire as hot as lava. My body must die, and the entire world will suffer Blight as a consequence. It will be devastating.”

His voice held no joy, though also no pain; yet a single hot tear splashed on to her hand, reminding her of mana in the blood and water. One part was worth exploring first: “How will I survive the Blight?”

“You are elvhen; and like all elvhen here, will be preserved as veilfire patterns in my memories. Moreover, my blood and other gifts will infuse your virtues with desire, allowing you to possess the dragon Razikale. The Nightmare demon will attempt to possess the dragon Lusacan. Together we will have the strength to prevent it. We will wipe the world clean, and re-found Arlathan as a new Elgar’nan and Mythal.”

Virla remembered being in his arms at Halamshiral, the images of Mythal calming Elgar’nan, and pressed her hand to his forehead, neck and chest in turn. All cold as ice; unlike the burning heat below her.

“It was like you said in Tarasyl’an Te’las… you would put things back the way they were before?”

“I remember no such conversation. But time is circular. How else would we recover immortality?”  

 _So he **had** forgotten her. _ “You… read the testimonial about me. Did it commend my abilities as a healer?”

“Yes. It spoke of how you healed both grave and minor injuries: a cut to the hand healed with gossamer elfroot; a man lying near death in the Fade; how well you understood which remedies to use.”

 _Interesting choice of examples, Solas._ “Then I have another question, if I may.”

He nodded, and she continued: “If these desires are hot as lava, and they are in your blood, why are your head, chest, arms and hands cold, and your thighs and _edhis_ burning up?”

“That is a good question. May I observe this for myself?”

At her acquiescence, he sat her down and stood up facing her, before – entirely unselfconsciously – lifting up his shirt with one hand and taking hold of his swollen cock with the other. After a painfully long minute, he finished his self-examination, letting his shirt fall back to mid-thigh, and looked down from his full height to Virla. “If the heat does not reside in my blood, where does it reside?”

She would be mindful of his pride. “It may well have been in your blood before, my lord, but I would suggest that now it might be more effectively relieved by _fenedhis lasa,_ which I am willing to carry out.”

He thought for a few moments, and then, to her immense relief, he nodded. “I believe we have time to test your hypothesis. If it does not work, we will try the blood as well. But first, lie on your front.”

He rolled up his shirtsleeves and moulded a pillow into a comfortable shape for Virla to lay her head on, so she could lie face down and still breathe. Shivering, she crawled across the bed to where he indicated, blushingly conscious of the dampness between her legs, naked breasts pressed against cold sheets, his beautiful long fingers, and her own obedience to his direction. _I don’t have to be Inquisitor any more._

Head tilted, she watched him remove his spectacles, lay them on a table by the bed, then place a vial above a veilfire brazier, heating it and pouring a generous helping of warm scented oil into his hands.  

“We need to bring you to release, to create capacity. I will compress your aura tightly while I anoint you,” he said, eventually. “Our auras must be separate at the crucial moment, otherwise you will fill again. This is your first time with me. It will be beautiful. Please lay your head down now.”

She hid her face in the pillow, trying to let go. That _this_ was what it took to save the world was so... so…

“Do you prefer that I recite poetry, explain what I am doing, or stay silent?” he asked, kneeling at her feet.

She had no idea, and the awareness that they were _listened to_ by someone that could cry as well as taste her and be tasted made such decisions that much harder. Perhaps there was no point in worrying about _him_ , too: what mattered was the task at hand… and all would be easier if she could forget the lack of music in his voice; remember Solas as he had been. Scents of crystal grace and dark embrium filled the air.

“You are ill,” she objected, suddenly raising her head again. “You… you… I… is there really time for this?”

“There is time, beloved. You are worthy to have this time devoted to you. Please state your preference.”

“Then I would… prefer silence.”

“As you wish,” he answered, easily. As she sank her head back down, he weighted his hands on her heels, then slowly massaged each foot in turn with practised thumbs, kneading and circling. She couldn’t remember Solas ever doing this before, but it felt achingly familiar, like she had at last returned to a body that was home to her: grounded in flesh that was desirable and warm and cared for. _I’ve been so alone._

Gradually, inexorably, he eased out all the muscles in her legs, banishing uncertainty and fear. _Perhaps life as an elvhen concubine was not **all** bad, _ she thought, drowsily, as the herbs began to suffuse her mind as well as her skin. His hands pressed into her thighs, round and around, relaxing muscles strong from years of fighting, tense, intense. Virla sighed as he brought fingers and aura repeatedly, temptingly, close to her arousal, remembering the heady sensations shaped by a single finger: in her; using, stretching, _testing_ her.

She wanted that, again and again and again until she knelt down on the floor and sobbed for him. This emptiness, this void inside, O Maker. She was a woman in a long white gown, pale hair and flames and…

But he moved away, and had placed a snoufleur fur over her hips and legs to keep her warm. It was hard to avoid the fear that they’d give her nightmares about this: this longing, wanting, pressing…

His hands glided over her back, light and probing. She remembered Villa Maurel, and warmer hands, and how he’d run from her. Suddenly his fingers slipped round to caress her breasts: not hesitant this time but fully committed to their task, making her feel their pertness in his hold, their delicacy; their roundness.

Too soon he moved up to her shoulders: rubbing in cold circles of scented oil; rubbing out tension; and pulled the snoufleur skin up further, until only her head was uncovered. As he caressed the nape of her neck with soft firm strokes, then circled the tips of his fingers into her scalp, she could feel his legs either side of her, knees pressed hard into her hips astride the fur. He bent down and licked behind her left ear from lobe to point. She giggled into the pillow, her aura pulsing blinding happiness within his.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, and she had to agree. Whatever he was, or would be, she was _his_.

“Always,” she confessed, and let him encourage her to her hand and knees underneath him, the snoufleur fur a demarcation between auras. Hers felt as sheer and tight as a second skin, wildly erotic.  He licked along the sensitive areas on her neck, stroking her breasts beneath him and smearing them with oil.

As she shuddered, longing for him to move his hands down further, push against her, rock her, he moved around to kneel in front of her. His hands flickered as he called two more wisps of solid violet magic, shaping each of them in turn around his _edhis._ She flushed hard at their size compared to his finger, wanting and not wanting them all at once. His shirt fell back down, barely covering their twin.

“I’m… quite small,” she said, blinking up at him.

“You are exquisite. Please open your mouth. If you need to lay aside your duty during this, simply push it firmly out with your aura and you will be able to speak. When you are lying down, we start as before.”

Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth and let the magic fill her. It was both like and unlike earlier this morning, tasting sweeter but with the same sensations pressing at her tongue, as if he fucked her mouth with an _edhis_ dipped in cinnamon and fire. He laid her down with her head resting downwards on the pillow. She closed her eyes and imagined holding his _edhis_ in her mouth and licking, sucking, slowly.

Solas eased her body flat again, shifting the fur up so it covered her upper body only. He started again from the feet, with exactly the same pressures, strokes and movements, until he reached the inside of her thighs. This time, something – his thumb? – ghosted over her clit, a feather light caress. 

She would have cried out, but her mouth was stopped with magic, thrusting sweetly against her tongue.

After each pass of her inner thighs, he added the same light stroke across her clit. By the third time she was pressing back into it; and on the eighth he suddenly thrust his thumb against her, hard and strong.

“Good,” he praised, as she squirmed in pleasure. “You are virtuous and beautiful. I can see how excited that makes you. Try to hold your aura even tighter around you. That will increase the sensation greatly.”

She pressed her legs together, seeking to compress the aura, but it kept spiralling wildly, shivering into chaotic tongues of flame and lightning flashes. Suddenly he took his thumb away and pulled her roughly to her knees, into his arms, jerking the magic out of her mouth and pressing his lips on hers instead.

If this was only memory of passion, somehow preserved by careful training, ritual, technique and centuries of practice, she dared not hope to survive his love itself. The kiss blew her away, shattering her mind into a million flaming fragments of desire. She was scarcely conscious of the hand that held itself beneath, behind her buttocks, thrusting into her first a single finger, then a thumb, then both index and middle fingers, jerking hard, and finally the hot hard pulse of magic. She was moving against it all, heart hammering as it all moved up and down, hot breasts against silk shirt and her hand and arm clamped tightly round his neck and stormy eyes and tears and far, far, far, far, far too much love for any…

And he’d moved away, somehow, and as she gasped in surprise, head thrown back, damp hair down her back, he forced the pressure back into her open mouth, cinnamon and fire, in phase with its heavy twin that thrusted upwards, downwards, as she arched her back and neck to line them up, one waxing as the other waned, in perfect synchronicity. _Faster, harder, stronger, wilder._ Sensations like she’d never felt before; accelerating far beyond what any normal muscles could achieve or any heart resist, however patient.

She was a cold pearl shivering on a string, and the string was about to break.

She was on the bed and shivering for release and he was somewhere standing by the bed and she could barely feel his aura and he’d cast a shower of frost within hers just before he left, soft as snoufleur fur, and she came, falling, drowning, gasping in the avalanche of stone-cold frozen, icy, chilly lust.

She was a single snowflake drifting to the Earth.

Empty, drained, no will, no mana, nothing, all spent.

After a minute, or maybe five, she opened her eyes to coldness and saw that the entire room was blanketed in knee-deep snow. _Oh,_ she thought, faintly. _Was that me?_ _  
_

He carried her off the bed and placed her on her knees on the snow in front of him, his hands upon her head in silent benediction, brushing snowflakes off her shoulders. With neither explanation nor delay, he pulled his shirt off over his head then eased her jaw apart to let her take his _edhis_ inside her mouth.

She swallowed mindlessly, liking the new taste of him, the now-familiar shape and weight and rhythm.

She saw, as if drifting in a dream, the hidden door from the library slide open, and Abelas step through. He balanced the goblet, wine and dagger on a silver tray, and almost dropped it when he saw the snow, her kneeling, sucking at his master’s cock, her head rocked steadily against him by hands behind her ears.

She watched as Abelas turned and fled, and the wall slid closed again. Her world swung back and forth.

Heat built and built within her mouth, licking tongues of flame. Now thrusting faster, more desperately, keening, he tried to cover her eyes with his hands. Instinctively, she shut her eyes as well, a second before the sunburst hit. The temperature in the room rose violently, and her will was ruthlessly invaded by another’s.

And when she managed, eventually, with a burning throat, to coax back enough of her own mind and will to open up her eyes again, each snowflake had turned to ash, and he’d fallen in a dead faint on the floor.

  
  



	56. Fennec für Zwischenzug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter title for my German-speaking readers. A Zwischenzug is a chess tactic in which a player interposes an unexpected move before the expected rejoinder, changing the situation to their advantage. A fennec is a desert fox, and the smallest of the family Canidae, the largest being the grey wolf.
> 
> PS: Still decidedly NSFW, and in fact it's probably safest to assume many of the remaining chapters will be. I just won't tell you which ones so as not to spoil the story.

Ash flakes were drifting, forever dancing, dark grey and molten, hot on her skin. Her mind had exploded, spanning the whole room: first snow, then ash. Staring and mindless, she lay sprawled and wondered what it must be like to move limbs again. Her jaw ached, her throat was raw red and burning, but the sweetest of memories of ecstasy remained: a soft, stretched, happy drowsiness, lit from the inside out.

Solas, or whatever parts of him endured, lay sleeping by the fireplace, on the ash-swept tiles: his skin a healthier colour and his breathing quiet and steady. Some time, when she could stand again, she might fetch a blanket from the bed, and a pillow, and make him as comfortable as she could.

The ash was slowly creeping back to her, each dark grey flake dissolving as it brushed against her skin. They danced as if she held a skein of threads, each one connected to a memory or thought, occasionally tugged to bring it closer. The chamber was her mind, this Solas held in her imagination, not defined by pointed ears or muscled limbs or breathing, but by her own conception of him.

 _No, he’s real. He’s definitely real,_ she thought to herself, and watched the ash retreat from him, all threads relating to him pulled at once, tingling in her hands. _He exists, he’s here with me, and I’m with him._  

He woke up and smiled.

****

“We should get dressed first, before we talk,” was all he’d said, pointing at a door she hadn’t noticed before, and something about his voice made her feel that everything was going to be all right.

She’d stumbled to her feet, and made her way to this dressing room. There was water to wash herself with and a wardrobe full of elvhen clothes. Virla took her time in choosing them, wanting to be perfect for him, give him time to think as well. Eventually she settled on a rust-coloured dress with a studded leather bodice, moulded with a plunging neckline below a matching V-shaped collar. Something about the style seemed familiar, as she inspected herself in the tall glass mirror, but she brushed the thought away.

They fit remarkably well, and while she blushed at the lack of cloth to bind herself with, Dalish-style, she had to admit these elvhen fashions showed off her figure better than the robes she had been wearing. The dress reached to her ankles, soft silk draped around her hips, giving her curves where she’d had few before. She smoothed the skirt around her waist with both hands and placed a crown of flowers on her head, admiring the entire effect: rose-pink lips, white skin, pale violet eyes; auburn hair, dawn lotus.

Behind her, some kind of horse was pounding at the window with its hooves. _Silly horse,_ she thought.

With a final smile at her own reflection, she walked back into the chamber. Someone had laid a lunch for them: two bowls of chicken broth; crusty rolls of bread with halla butter; sweet red wine.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, now handsomely dressed as well, and standing up to greet her with a soft kiss on her lips. It lasted slightly longer than she suspected it should have done according to the rules.

Then he pulled out a chair for her, bowing slightly. “We can speak when you have soothed your lovely throat with soup. It must be hard to speak right now. Don’t worry, we have time.”

She flushed and sat down opposite him, her back to the thunderstorm that raged outside, rain lashing at the windows. The stupid horse with horns had followed her, and hammered on the glass as well, until he flung it into the lake with a flick of his wrist. They ate in companionable silence, safe together at last.

Somehow all the questions in her mind could wait. Since when had knowing anything new about him ever made it easier? The soup eased the last of the pain in her throat, and she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Let me do that,” he said, suiting the action to the word, then, as the table vanished into nothing, pulling her firmly on to his lap. She wondered if that was in the rules or not; then found she didn’t care.

Her knees slipped either side of him, pressing the soft back of the armchair, the silk dress riding upwards. She could feel how hard he was again beneath her as he ground against her, his hands on her hips, moving in a steady rhythm. Green veil-lightning flashed outside, illuminating his beautiful cheekbones.

Surprised, she drew back slightly, but found that he was pulling her to the bed, white sheets clean and enticing. Underneath the bedside table, she caught a flicker of movement: the tail of a fennec, perhaps. _Good dog._ It slept on, and she forgot about it. Solas sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt down at her feet. Slowly, hungrily, he began to slide his hands upwards, easing apart her knees and thighs.  

“I feel in need of dessert,” he smirked, as she leant back, both hands gripping the sheets in anticipation.

“D… don’t s… sp… talk. Your… d… dialogue is at… atr… terrible,” growled the wolf, forming the words with some difficulty and following them with a long, panting sigh, as if short of breath.

Virla blinked – hadn’t Fen’sulevin been underneath the bedside table? The voice had come from over by the fireplace. There had been a table… no, it must have been a desk, because he was sitting behind it… and that horse, no _halla_ … that meant something… and the lightning, why had it been…

Solas buried his head between her thighs. The girl moaned as he delved his tongue into her, forgetting everything again, even her name. She fell back on the bed, red hair a corona around her eyes, her clit the sharp tip of a sword, Andraste’s star in _Visus_. Torrential rain outside, and… who was he at the desk and…

Her head tossed from side to side in ecstasy, closing her eyes against the giant moon approaching through the windows and the wolf that was also a man still sitting at the desk, and again the moon, and someone calling from the library, and a determined, sodden golden halla, charging at a furious run…

His tongue had stopped, and he was removing his trousers hastily, lifting her left thigh up and bracing himself against it as he slid his… his _edhis,_ yes… into her, slowly, painlessly, wonderfully filling her. She cried out joyfully, unafraid, wanting it, wanting _him_ , wanting, wanting…

The storm outside was so intense the moon was swimming in an ocean, a tsunami of broken trees and marble statues straining at the windows and the wards. _Wait, that’s not the moon, it’s…_

A green-white tentacle smashed through the window, and the water flooded in, dousing them all in freezing water and knocking “Solas” on the floor. She screamed and screamed: no mana, no strength, no _Alistair_ this time, as it reached straight for her, its slimy arm wrapping tight around her waist. The halla took the tide at flood to fortune and skidded across the tiles, bowing before the wolf-man at his desk. He stretched his hand out, taking the power that the creature offered, to shout as she was dragged away:

“ _Virlath, **wake up!**_ ”

****

She woke up with her screams trapped in the Fade, her heart still hammering.

She was naked, warm, dry, covered in ash, and Abelas was checking Solas’ pulse, where he still lay on the floor, stirring into consciousness. Nobody was looking at her. Outside all was sunlit, peaceful. Something nudged at her shoulder, and she looked up to find Hanal’ghilan, warm and dry and _real_. The girl buried her face against its golden flanks, whispering _ma serannas_ , remembering her own name too. _I’m Virla, Virlath, path of love. I need to save our people, and even though the Nightmare comes, I **cannot** be afraid. _

Leaning on Hanal’ghilan, she staggered across the room to where she’d found the dressing room before, the lever for its entrance concealed behind a window-curtain. The halla did not accompany her inside. This time she washed and dressed mechanically, choosing the same clothes since she knew they fit, ignoring the colours that might have suited fair hair better. With a sigh she exchanged the crown of flowers for a pair of knee-length leggings underneath her skirt, practical and modest. Clothes were more difficult to put on now with one hand. Virla cursed the Fade for reminding her – each night and now – of what she’d lost.

_It had seemed so real, but it was just another trick._

Suddenly angry with everyone and everything, particularly herself; and terrified; and shy; and knowing… _hoping_ … Abelas would take good care of Solas, she perched herself on the window-sill to think.

Hanal’ghilan had gone back out into the garden, which she took as a sign that no immediate danger threatened her. No sign of a Breach within the sky, or rifts, not that she could close them now, of course.

What worried her most was just how clear it should have been to her that she was in the Fade – her hands, her hair, the disappearing table – and yet how real it had all felt, how right. She remembered the Vir Dirthara and its floating geometry. With hindsight it had felt like that: as if World and Fade were intertwined, their different rules embracing. Complementing, rather than conflicting. Whole.

And there had been two of him: one hot, one cold. Had she sucked his desire into herself, her mind, to form a man, two men? Or one man and a desire demon? _And what about the third? What’s left for him?_

Virla closed her eyes – still violet, she’d checked that too – and breathed deeply through her nose. From the main chamber she could hear the murmur of Abelas’ thoughts, and his and Solas’ conversation, calm and measured, _elvhen._ This wasn’t the most terrifying day that she’d endured, or the most painful, but perhaps it was the strangest. Where had Morrigan gone? Why had Abelas said _fertile_?

She dared not delay here any longer. _Let’s go find the third,_ she told herself.

****

She’d entered the chamber, catching just a glimpse of Solas with a green blanket neatly wrapped around his waist, entering another hidden… dressing room, she assumed. All of the ash had gone. The broken window had been sealed, and all of the glass from that had gone as well. Two of the panels holding windows had slid aside to form a double door, with steps leading down into the sunshine.

“My lady, please go into the garden. The spirits will guide you there and bring you lunch.”

She’d smiled at Abelas: a futile gesture since he didn’t meet her eyes. Since he wasn’t looking, she closed her eyes to listen as she walked, hearing: “…chicken soup, he said that she liked chicken soup, and Dalish hearth cakes if there was anyone I trusted who could make them, and…”

The voice died away as she opened her eyes to negotiate the steps down to the garden. Either Abelas was genuinely worried about her having enough to eat, or it was a habitual trick to protect his real thoughts from those he served. She’d grown up knowing that demons – spirits – could read her memories when she slept, and Cole had only used his powers to help, though she understood why people feared him… but a society where mistresses read servants’ minds... that was slavery indeed.

A silent spirit led her to a circular arbour with a pair of wooden chairs whose wreckage she remembered from her dream… or memory, or _prophecy_ , whatever. She sat down, thinking hard. What was it the Spirit of Connection, _Ghil-Dirthalen_ said, in the shattered library broken by the raising of the Veil?

 _One city could read the records of another, one Elvhen feel the memories of another._  

Now if you were two minds in a man, one taking actions, one listening to the other’s actions, contributing back perhaps by dreams…

She took a gulp of chicken soup, staring at the vacancy in front of her.

If you were two realms in a world, one taking actions, one listening to the other’s actions, contributing back perhaps by dreams… and the thinness of the Veil at Crestwood…

A conversation, day and night, not talking over each other. Taking time to be apart, and _listen._

_Even the lowliest peasant may find freedom in the safety of her thoughts._

She looked up, seeing Solas approaching across the garden, straight-backed and serious and real and carrying a chess board and a set… and suddenly all this caution made more sense.

_I am your peasant girl, your virtuous one, your queen. It’s always been… easier for me, in the Fade._

He walked closer, and she could _smell_ him, taste his aura in her memory, sweet and hot and glorious.

He sat down opposite, placing the chess board on the ground beside the table, looking at his soup-bowl.

She thought of staving off the Nightmare with the strength of her desire for him, kisses and a table disappearing and his _edhis_ thrusting into her, and paused, her warm soup dripping from her spoon.

“Can you read my thoughts?” she asked, because with _this_ him it was best to ask directly.

“No,” he said, and why would he lie? That part of him wasn’t speaking.

Her aura washed across the table, completely uncontrolled and uncontrollable by her, tidal waves in violet throwing themselves against an ivory cliff. He flinched and sat up straighter: immovable, unfeeling, blank.   

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, trying to pull back the waves.

“There is no need to apologise. You will learn to control yourself better over time.”

After that, they ate in silence.

****

They’d moved to playing chess. It was the afternoon, and so, of course, they had. Between moves she looked up at the citadel: its towers clad in climbing vines, nestled like a bird within the forest, if a bird were huge and stone and turreted. Far older than Suledin Keep, more like the Temple of Mythal than Fen’Harel’s Sanctuary: it sprawled and loomed.

Solas certainly loomed large within her consciousness, but didn’t sprawl. She’d managed to regain control of her desires, swirling them in whirlpools round her feet not flung straight at him. Funny how she’d never found her feet erotic until he’d taken a hold of them… _no, think about something, **anything** else…_

The chess board lay between them: still Tevinter-style, and he was winning the first game easily today. Perhaps she should play Varric-style, and play for conversation; win at dialogue.

“Solas, you mentioned the Nightmare demon earlier. Can you t… tell me more about it?”

“It is extremely powerful, and you were fortunate to escape it when you fell into the Fade at Adamant. I assume the magic of my orb protected you, since I wasn’t there. Most people forget it immediately on waking; that you are strong enough to remember it makes it far more likely to target you in future.”

“What should I do if it does t… target me?” The sun was warm, but her teeth were chattering.

“Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, pride, compassion... every emotion save perhaps desire. Be wary. The Nightmare will do anything in its power to weaken our resolve.”

It was exactly what he had said to comfort Cole when in the Fade. Not that he remembered that.

“So the only way to keep away the demon is to focus on desire? And that’s not guaranteed to work?”

“Yes, that’s right. Whatever desires are strongest in you. They must be stronger than the power it seeks to gain from you. This is why I am feeding my desires to you, to add to your desires, to keep us safe.”

“What would _you_ focus on, Solas?” she asked, thinking about the dense strength of his aura and the power tightly coiled within it; petrified Qunari. “Your power is great indeed.”

“This power comes from the Earth and not the Sun,” he answered. “The Veil means that the demons cannot see that. That’s why I made the orb originally, to catch energy that would otherwise flow into me. Had the orb not been destroyed, I could have used it to directly annihilate the Nightmare. Instead, the energy flows into you, and, as long as I suppress desire, the Nightmare cannot see me. All that I have done, I’ve done to hide from it. Were it to possess me now it would make the world a living nightmare.”

“I understand,” she said, and, at last, she _did_.

She laid her hand on his, across the table. “We **will not** let that happen.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan now is to start a new parallel story at this point, from Solas' point of view, going back some months in time, leading up to here and going on. I know where this story's going, and I will return to write the final chapters too, but there are parts that Virla cannot know, so... watch this space. I'll link it from this chapter as well, so that readers can find it easily.
> 
> Edit (30/5/16): added as [Out of the dimness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7030597/chapters/15997579).


	57. Red hart, swooping owl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Taikyoku shōgi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taikyoku_shogi) is the largest known variant of Japanese chess, and has 209 types of pieces played on a board with 1296 squares (36 x 36). Piece names include, along with swooping owl, the following: peacock, running stag, golden bird, cloud dragon, strutting crow, heavenly horse and running bear.

When he didn’t respond, she tightened her hand on top of his, then let it go, auras disentangling again. It was futile to expect either comfort or sympathy from him – he had rarely found it easy to express his concern directly for her, even when he wasn’t forcibly separated from his warmer emotions.

Virla changed her tack. “Solas, you said that you would make Morrigan elvhen and that she would be your queen. And then, this morning, you said that I would reign with you. What changed your mind?”

“A throne is not forced upon the unwilling,” said Solas. “She knew what the wine meant, and did not drink it. You were her second, and therefore, when she did not drink it, it was appropriate for you to do so.”

“A throne?” she echoed, moving her queen back to its starting hex, the only safe place for it.

“A soul, rather. When you are ready, you will take on Mythal’s soul and fly as Razikale.”

“But how will I know that I am ready?”

“Your eyes will turn golden, like Mythal’s.” He moved a pawn, uncovering a check from one of his three mages. “Checkmate. We must play in silence from now on, so that you are not distracted.”

“You want me to see if I can beat you?”

“Isn’t that what this is all about?” he asked, and she raised her eyebrows at the irony, imagining Dorian and Bull roaring with laughter. _I hope they’re all ok._

It was hard to be amused by any of this. She’d said to Leliana, Cassandra and Harding as she stabbed Tevinter on the map, enraged that he had left her once again: _we’ll find people that he doesn’t know._

_Well, I messed that up._

That dispiriting thought led to a second, a tentative ray of hope: _To be fair, he doesn’t know me now._

Her gaze was caught by the Tevinter dragon she had captured, the black knight of this game, now in her hand to place back on its starting hex. They alternated colours each time they played, so this time it would be on her side. It reminded her of her dwarven dragon statuettes, safe for now in Skyhold.

 _Dwarven weapons and ancient crests have dragons._ She remembered the journal from the Hissing Wastes and the verse passed down to Fairel’s house through hundreds of generations: _From the Stone, have no fear of anything, but the stone-less sky betrays with wings of flame. If the surface must be breached, if there is no other way, bring weapons against the urtok, and heed their screams._

The stone-less sky reminded her of the measure of living flesh the Maker took, when he brought forth the Veil. The dwarves? Then Mythal gave them dreams, perhaps, to help them grow and change. A song, that somehow broke. But… it was the screams that worried her. How could she hope to fight the Nightmare?

“Solas…” she began, placing the dragon on its hex, trying to decide what next to ask about.

“Focus on the game,” he told her, taking up a golden pawn and moving it to start the next match.

“But…”

His eyes shone white and black, jagged everite against the snow. Pure terror seized her, sudden ice-cold sweat. Then stormy grey returned, and her own breaths, but far too fast, and silently.

Her mouth was parched with fear. _The Dread Wolf ends you._

She focused on the game.

****

Virla lost both games that followed, though the last was close. In a daze of fear and lust, she accompanied him back inside to the bedchamber, where he closed the doors out to the garden and renewed the wards.

Hanal’ghilan had stayed away from them, she realised, watching Solas lay the final touches to the magical protections for the evening. Her protective golden halla was still out there – flashes of creamy white among the dark green trees – which was _something_ , something to hold on to, in a world where gods were demons and the demons fought each other for her mind.

The part of her that didn’t want to think about that drifted into semi-conscious worship of his body: long, lean lines and pleasing angles; firm and smooth and muscled flesh within those velvet robes. This muted version of him both repelled her and attracted her, making every nerve sing sharp.

_These savage unwashed warriors carried harmonies no Chantry choir has mastered._

And if she had to focus on desire at nights, to beat the Nightmare, then perhaps she should not stop herself from wanting him. Images of thrusting, stroking, pulsing filled her mind: stoppable; unstopped.

His sleeping wolf’s tongue, thick and throbbing wisps, his hands exploring, wet with oil…

_I want you to fuck me all night long so that I never need to sleep._

Slowly, she became aware that he was watching _her_ , in the reflections of the windows. _He_ was watching her regard of him, quietly accepting all her admiration of his body, manifest and blatant in her aura.

“The desire within your aura is undimmed,” he said. “Good. You fear my strength, but still you want me.”

She nodded, conscious of transparency, wondering what the night would bring, and morning, if she saw it.

“You may speak, beloved, if you wish. What would you ask of me?”

_I want you to fuck me all night long so that I never need to sleep._

_I want you to fuck me all night long so that I never need to wake._

“I… I…” she stammered, imagining herself on hands and knees, a naked marble statue for his sole and perfect use, obscene and beautiful and… _stone, not soft._

 

_I cannot do that to you, vhenan._

And both – or all – of them were listening. What should she say?

This Solas seemed to think that she would become some kind of spirit of desire, surviving through the death of all the world through memories he wrote in veilfire. The fresco writer urged her to be soft, not stone – changeable, imperfect, mortal; striving for a better world, if never quite attaining it. And the winter wolf had laid out another path this morning, affirming that he couldn’t save the world without her:

_Use the book. Don’t let him use blood. Don’t let him kill you, or anyone, if possible. Fenedhis lasa._

Virla controlled her pounding heart and tried to think from his perspectives, her sole hand hidden in and clutching at the silken fabric of her dress. She was not now his Inquisitor; he didn’t need her to be in control of this, but he did need _her_ , and so she would be there for him, however strange the situation.

“I am here for you, Solas,” she said, taking a step towards his back. “ _Ar lath ma._ ”

She closed her eyes and listened hard, to see if she could hear an echo from beyond the Veil – _ar lath ma, vhenan –_ a breath of whirling winter wind, a sigh, a calming murmur… anything. But silence reigned.

She opened them to find that he had turned around, that he was walking to her, and as she stood there, desperate again to feel his aura, he put his arms around her, held her close. Her skin was tingling.

“Beloved,” he began, and she felt the tears begin to come, remembering he had seldom dared to touch her as Inquisitor outside the Fade, resisting her almost the whole time.

She was weeping openly now, just standing there and being held, and crying for the man he used to be (still was) who’d said he had distracted her from duty. Had held her, and had walked away; was lost.

One of his hands – the same hands, or at least they _seemed_ the same as those she’d held in Crestwood – crept up to stroke her hair; the other tightened round her.

“Beloved, do not distress yourself. Your healing of me worked today, and you have earned the right to have me comfort you. You are young, and you may find our customs unfamiliar. Perhaps it would be appropriate for me to state what you will do each day.”

She suppressed another broken sob, to whisper, still in elven: “Yes, my lord. Grant guidance.”

“Remember you are not a slave, beloved; you are free. And yet, because you are free, and because you love me, you will choose to do the following; and if you do not choose this, you can lay aside your duty.”

“I will help you,” she agreed, listening to his toneless baritone and steady heartbeat equally: _mana in the blood_ … unless she’d drunk it. _Your dreams will be… you’ll see._

“Each morning we will wake at dawn. Unless events take precedence, I meditate for an hour after I wake, and you are welcome to observe the same routine. It is a very old tradition. I then receive reports, and consider what is to be done. You might wish to use the time to study our customs.”

“You did not meditate today,” said Virla. That custom of his at least was familiar from old Inquisition days.

“Events took precedence,” said Solas, calmly. “Around two hours before midday we will meet here and each day will proceed as this one did, with you healing me and keeping me company by playing chess.”

She shivered at the implications, hot and cold. “Where do I sleep at nights?”

“With me, in here,” he replied, and she shivered even more, both relieved and terrified, his confidence and coolness fanning her desire to flame. _Gods. How can I wait till morning with him nearby all the time?_

“What happens if the Nightmare possesses me?”

“I will know, and I will kill you instantly, before it has a chance to cause more suffering. That will send it back into the Fade, and I will search out Lady Morrigan to take your place. She will admit the need.”

 _Like a Templar, watching over a mage’s harrowing,_ she thought, but did not say so.

****

He left her after dinner sitting in the library, explaining that she could read anything she chose, and that he would ensure that Abelas had told their fellow elvhen that they had a new and worthy mistress. She browsed around the shelves, and marvelled at the magic that enabled her to read the ancient elven easily.

She thought of Varric’s stories of the prison Corypheus had been constrained in, that it had been hidden by the Wardens for a thousand years; and of Solasan, and the sense of dread that kept stray travellers away. This citadel might have been protected similarly, and by the remoteness of the Tirashan.

Virla flicked through texts – art and botany and poetry – and thought of Sera: would Abelas tell her or any others what had happened? If not, what should she do to get a message to her? The last thing that this crazy situation needed was a rescue mission for the Herald of Andraste, or even just for her as Virla. Surely everyone who knew would recognise the sense in having someone that he trusted close to Solas at this point; and those who knew how much she’d longed to be with him might simply let her be?

_Poor Hawen. His previous First gets killed while at Din’an Hanin, and now I’m here with Fen’Harel._

As if the thought of him was summons, the Dread Wolf suddenly appeared, stepping through the wards that blocked the exit to another staircase hidden behind bookcases. She’d no desire to leave, and no desire to run from him, but noted which it was. Wordlessly, he indicated that they should retire to bed.

A spirit came to lead her to the changing room, where it had warmed a clean silk nightshirt, violet to match her eyes – _no change –_ and thankfully already buttoned. She managed a weak smile at her own reflection, as she stripped and pulled it on. The left sleeve dangled uselessly. _But **he** believes in you._

She’d thought that she would lie awake in fear, or on her own in silent lust; that Solas would remain on his own side, and she on hers, just as he’d done on those few nights when they had slept beside each other, when he’d had to hide himself from her, maintain his role and cover. _I felt the presence of an intriguing artefact in the Hinterlands._

And so it was another shock – a welcome one, this time – to find herself wrapped once more in his arms, her back against his chest, her head tucked neatly underneath his chin, and…

****

Virla was waking, happy and sated, safe in her chamber, high in the air. Arms warm around her, keeping protected, beloved and precious, hidden from moon. Murmured endearments, tickling kisses, turning around and kissing him back. Wrapped in his warm wings, owls in the windows, swooping to swoon.

Sleepy gentle pre-dawn kisses soon deepened into warmer ones, with magic licking at her skin and hands caressing down her back and thighs. He’d never taken her to bed outside the Fade, and now she craved it, not daring to ask for it explicitly, but hoping he would take the hint: her body rubbing up against his, breasts unbound beneath the silken shirt, all soft against his chest. She hooked her left leg over his right thigh, silent flirting, serious, and felt his body shiver with reflection of her own desire.

Beautiful in the moonlight, with his ears and cheekbones, subtle freckles, warm blue eyes and boyish grin. Even the painter had remarked that he looked younger than he should have done.

She leaned her head back so that he could bite her neck, sweet red marks to be hidden by red hair, his red hart, and in the process caught sight of the painter. Odd. She hadn’t asked for him to paint her having sex.

Behind him was the moon: full, bright, and squirming through the windows.

Solas slipped a hand between her legs, sucking at her ear and rubbing round in long, slow circles. She gave her consent as always – since she’d never resisted him, always him who ran from her – and gasped her pleasure so the painter could record the proper moments. She could see the picture now emerging, as he sat behind the – easel, desk, or easel – a beautiful woman, being fucked by…

A beautiful woman, losing her virginity to her one true lover: happy, confident, adored.

The painter wasn’t very good: the woman didn’t look as happy as she truly should; her lover was a mess of horns; and that Skyhold was all wrong, too squat, with some huge spider crawling up the battlements.

She shook her head to rid it of the painter, and found that she was…

 

…in the rotunda, and he had her bent over the desk, golden handprints all over her body like some kind of wicked vallaslin, and gloriously thrusting into her with magic and his cock.

She groaned in happiness, hands pressing on the desk and thighs against the wooden side of it, each jerk of bodies sending her another inch towards oblivion and to another paint pot crashing on the floor.

Your slave, I’ll be your slave, she thought, if you can just… just keep… on… doing… that…

 

 _He_ was also painting here, standing on his scaffold, dying, sorrow etched in every feature.

_Whatever you need, we can find together. / No, we can’t. You’ll see._

Halo round Celene’s white head was golden, like a portal straight into the Fade, and widening, to let the moon shine through. Pushing, just as he was pushing. She was grinding back: in rhythm; stretching.

And he, the painter he, was punching, painting, at the moon, and howling, angry like a pack of wolves is angry, painting over silver, making gold, and… lust had made her desperate, a vixen, growling…

…arms collapsed, and she was lying, grinning, naked chest flat on the desk, bindings round her feet, and silver paint exploded to ecstatic white. Strange, that she had thought of spiders. Far too many legs.

  



	58. Lustrous nemesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the ancient Greeks, Nemesis was the spirit of divine retribution against those who succumbed to pride; a distributor of fortune; a daughter of Justice. It is also a chess variant where the queen is replaced by the nemesis piece: it moves like a queen but can only capture or be captured by the enemy king.

At first, Virla didn’t realise that she _was_ awake, but simply rested in his arms, and waited for the other one to join the narrative. From what she could remember through the haze of lust, each chapter of the dream had drawn from those same elements: a sense of safety emanating from her lover; passion blocking out the Nightmare’s fear; and the watcher taking care that she never fell completely to desire.

As ever in the Fade, you couldn’t trust how things appeared: both lover and watcher looked identical, which still puzzled her, and – now she thought about it – worried her. But she felt no static from her lover’s aura… and no pain… and so he _must_ be Solas. The constant watcher must be Fen’sulevin, stronger, bolstered by that strange interaction with her other protector, the golden halla Hanal’ghilan.

It was silly to be embarrassed about spirits watching – they’d seen it all before, she told herself. She hadn’t been self-conscious in the Fade; had simply let him take her every way she wished: a dozen or a hundred different fantasies of love and lust and sex, each pulled from her mind and freshly savoured.

_So why am I feeling hot and flustered now? Oh…_

She looked down at the violet nightshirt, the flush that spread across her chest half-hidden by it, his arms beneath her unbound breasts, the soft green blanket pulled over them both, and shuddered with desire.

She’d woken up, and she was still alive, and it was dawn. She missed her hand.

****

By the third day, she began to be grateful for the meditation, meals and games of chess that punctuated all the sex. Not because of physical fatigue – the nights were after all, still only dreams – but just to have some time to comprehend it all. To be herself and not _his lover_.

_When you’ve spent the best part of three years trying not to think about him holding you,_ she thought, _and then you give in to your dreams and let him take you twenty times a night… in woods and beds and on the beach, and underneath Nevarran stars and by Ferelden lakes, or up against the Skyhold walls…_

_…and once per day, with hands and magic, performed precisely, following their ancient rituals…_

_…then no wonder if you feel a little… overwhelmed._

It was as if he’d gone into her mind (and, so she presumed, he had) to find her favourite cake, and then produced one like it, except four times better; and then refined it further, practising until she screamed in ecstasy at the thought of icing. Her body would have found its limits, but her mind… her mind… her mind…

She suspected there was trickery involved: some clever way he kept it new and fresh.

And yet, from what he’d said before, they needed her desire to grow, to thwart the Nightmare.

_I must stay focused._  

****

On the evening of the eighth day, Virla noticed that her eyes had lost their violet tinge. Now they seemed pale blue, and the nightshirt that the spirit handed her was blue as well to match them. Sera also had blue eyes, she remembered, and felt guilty that she’d not yet found a way to get a message to her.

There’d been no sign of Abelas. Each day as she lay naked on the bed and swallowed sparkling cinnamon, she wondered if today the sunburst’s all-consuming power would send them both to sleep again, and she would wake to see the sentinel assisting Solas to his feet. But neither snow nor ash repeated that first intensity of ice or fire; and instead she simply knelt there – unclothed, one-armed, gasping, mindless – as Solas strode away at noon in silence, and spirits cleared away the ash.

_I am emptied. I am filled. Nobody talks to me._

She’d tried to talk to the spirits, in Common and in ancient elven. While they were civil in their answers, even courteous, they never left the citadel and didn’t seem to care that she was lonely.

And at nights, she had no mastery of the Fade. If she tried to take control and shape her will to purpose, not desire, the Nightmare would pursue her, and the lover – or the watcher? – would disrupt the Fade and take her back to somewhere safe and sacred. Lover, Watcher, Nightmare – there was no-one else that she could reach through dreams; and none of those permitted any proper conversation.

She’d thought about the Temple of Mythal: three archers in Sylaise’s nightly labyrinth; the Dread Wolf in the other maze next door, for when she woke. And of Mythal’s legacy and of the fate awaiting her.

Very hard to trust him, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.

Solas let her talk with him, occasionally, in the transition times between the games of chess and dinner, or between their reading and their sleep. But she was wary of him, now, and of herself. For all she knew, the whole world had been killed already. And yet she dared not ask, feeling herself a concubine – a pawn, and not a queen, not privy to affairs of state.

_Coward,_ she chastised herself. _You must ask tonight_. _Think of all the other horrors you have faced: Corypheus, the grand Orlesian ball, the Fade, dragons, earthquakes, Sha-Brytol..._

Virla pulled the nightshirt on, and brushed her hair down past her shoulders, a gleaming gold curtain round a face she’d begun to doubt belonged to her at all. _So what if your eyes are blue, you’re somehow elvhen, you’re his concubine, the plaything of a cursed god? You’re still **you**._

_I’m still **me**._

“My lord, would it be appropriate…” she started, as she lay down on the bed and let him put his arms around her, “…to accompany you one night when you take your walk outside the citadel?”

“No, it would not be appropriate,” came the swift response, his deep voice thrumming tonelessly. This close, she could feel every vibration, every movement that he made… his arms constraining her to feel him, feel his unconcern.

“I was wondering how our people fare,” she explained, and thought of him who _listened_.

“They are content, and safe. But it would not be wise to let them see you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are desirable. The elvhen would desire you. It would make them less content.”

“You allowed Morrigan to bring me as her second. Could I have some company, someone to visit me while you take your walk? One of the… the… shadows,” persisted Virla, remembering the elven word he’d used.

“A request for a second is traditionally granted,” he admitted. “And restricting it to a single time each day shows wisdom. I will select a suitable female tomorrow evening and she may attend you on the next day.”

She thanked him politely, hiding in his arms, and felt a wave of new fears wash out some of the guilt.

****

Predictably, it was not Sera – but it _was_ the red-haired elf she’d seen her with. Solas had asked her, after dinner, to wait out in the garden arbour, and brought this woman, blindfolded. He must have brought her through an invisible or hidden gate within the garden walls, judging by the time it took.

_So many secrets._

“Hello,” said Virla, as Solas silently removed the blindfold, ushered the woman to a seat, then walked away again. “Thank you for coming to keep me company for a while. My name is…”

“I know who you are, Inquisitor,” said her visitor. “I am Tallis. Apparently I’m worthy to be here.”

“Tallis? Oh! Are you a viddathari? Wait… are you the one that…”

The first words escaped her mouth before she stopped herself: excitement at seeing someone new, with news, overcoming all her caution. She bit her lip, and felt her muscles tense. _A Qunari spy. Like Bull was._

Tallis’ mouth quirked up into a smile, lashes fluttering over large blue eyes. “Sera was right. You’re smart. Yes, I am the one that went with Hawke and Varric to the wyvern hunt at Chateau Haine. Chalice, in the book. No doubt you’ve read it. Yes, I fancied Hawke. No, I didn’t sleep with him. Thanks for not getting either of them killed yet. Of all the adventures I’ve had, they were some of the best.”

Virla sat forward in her chair. “How is she? What is going on out there? Are you still Qunari?”

“We’re camping in a forest by this fortress and… nothing much is happening. The most entertaining thing is listening to the fights between Abelas and Morrigan.”

“Morrigan’s still here?” cut in Virla, surprised. “I thought she’d gone.”

Tallis nodded, her lips thinned. “She’s in a cave nearby. Apparently the voices that she hears had told her that she ought to leave you there and come outside. Sera went into the fortress like she did before but couldn’t find you, and she was terrified. We had to stop her killing Morrigan. She still hasn’t forgiven her. Anyway, Soren found Morrigan a cave that she could seal with magic, and left her with some food. When Abelas came back he said that you were fine, that you’d be happy. Not sure Sera believes it yet though.”

Virla encouraged her to give her as many details of their situation as she knew, giving little in return. At the conclusion, she gave her words for Sera. “Please tell her that I’m fine. Tell her now is not a time for killing. I don’t need to be rescued. I don’t _want_ to be rescued. I’m here by choice. I’m happy.”

“You don’t look… entirely happy,” said Tallis, eyeing her with suspicion.

Virla sighed. “Is anyone ever _entirely_ happy? Were you – are you – happy with the Qun?”

The woman shrugged, perhaps appreciating Virla had the right to ask. “I’m an assassin. I get things done. Me and the Qun, it’s… complicated. At first, it was just better than a slave’s life in Tevinter. Then… I believed in purpose, unity – improving life for everyone. I was in the Ben-Hassrath, like The Iron Bull.”

“Bull told me about the Ben-Hassrath,” said Virla gently. “But he left that life behind. Have you?”

Tallis looked worried. “I… I don’t know. I think I became a double agent, for your Fen’Harel, although the orders never came directly. The Qunari thought so, anyway. They called me Tal-Vashoth and tried to hunt me down. Morrigan helped me to escape. I ended up in Wycome. Then your clansman Soren and I both came here. I hoped… I hoped that there would be a path where it didn’t have to end in violence.”

Both women jumped as Solas’ shadow fell across the table: his feet were silent on the grass; neither had seen him coming. “This is a place of peace,” he said in Common, his voice deadly soft. “Do not doubt it.”

Tallis gulped, fingering the blindfold, and appeared to choose her words at random. “Doubt is the path one walks to reach faith. To leave the path is… is… to embrace blindness and abandon hope.”

It was a Qunari proverb. Virla froze in fear, remembering the fate of all the Viddasala’s warriors.

“You are not Qunari now,” said Solas, simply, fixing the blindfold back on Tallis. “Come, let us return.”

She watched him guide her out and wondered once again about those old mosaics on the walls in Skyhold. Qunari, before the time of the Qunari. Suddenly she recalled Varric standing by those same mosaics and reading out, to general hilarity, a letter sent by Hawke. He’d used another Qunari saying, maybe learnt from Tallis, adapted to Anderfels cuisine: _She who swallows wisdom in tiny chunks avoids choking._

Perhaps it was a comfort that the worst thing she could do was think she understood it all.

And… and… if the best thing she could do was swallow wisdom (or whatever) day by day… and fuck him… well… she could just hope that Varric would never know, and so he’d never put it in his books.

That visit, brief as it had been, had done her a lot of good, relieving her mind of its most pressing worries. And while she might not laugh just yet, she allowed herself a little smirk. If she ever got back to reality, she’d have to tell Cassandra she’d met _Chalice_. Maybe… maybe they could set her up with Hawke again and see what happened. If he ever got back safe from Weisshaupt, he deserved a happy ending too.

She closed her eyes and prayed and prayed, to nobody, that Solas could be saved, and vowed she’d give him all the love he needed, anything to make it all come right.

When he came back, she beamed at him, and thanked him for allowing her request.

The sex that night in dreams was just… _magnificent._

It was sad she couldn’t remember very much of it when she woke up in his arms.

 

Nights and days, and days and nights passed, and Chalice told her what was going on, but it got harder to remember it. Sometimes, while she played at chess, she remembered who she was and what the point of all this was, and then it slipped away, like pawns knocked off the table rolling into grass, forgotten.

She knew that he was proud of her, despite it all, despite her mutilated body and the pawns.

She knew that deep beneath the cold exterior still beat a heart of flame, and she was burning.

She knew that she was happy.

She knew that she was meant to be happy.

 

Sunset by lakeside, somewhere near Redcliffe. Arm round her shoulders, they watched the moon rise, up to the sky then into the lake. Somewhere behind them, still sat the painter: painting protection, on a house wall. Solas was sad now, sadder than usual: gazed at the water, and held back the flood.

For the first time in a hundred years – or weeks, or nights – he spoke. Something about Andraste? The words jangled together in a sense that made no way, and his arm was gone from round her.

He’d been speaking to the painter, saying something like goodbye, and then to her, the same, but quickly, far too fast, already walking. _Why did she feel like she had seen this all before?_  

The moon that was not a moon ascended through the surface, and a crack began to appear within this dream. She stood up, startled, reaching for her staff, since that was what you did with…

Demons.

_Demons!_

She started screaming as they fought each other, pain ripping through her mind, seeing him for what it truly was: a liar, cheat, a thief, Desire. The massive bug-eyed spider Nightmare opened up its maw…

…and swallowed Solas whole. For a horrible second, all that she could see was teeth.

A violent shockwave flung her back. At the centre of the storm still stood the painter. Purple and emerald lightning swirled around them both, a furious tempest of power.

In shock, she turned upon the storm, and shook her fist at nothing. “You lied to me! I loved you!”

“He kept the Nightmare from the world,” said the painter quietly, from just behind her. “From you. I’m sorry that it hurts. I’m sorry we deceived you, Virlath. It was… necessary.”

She span around, tears standing in her eyes, as green and violet faded into deepest black.

  
  



	59. Phoenix scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The phoenix is a fairy chess piece represented by an inverted knight. Along with the varghests, quillback and hyena, it is one of the few animals that can survive in blighted lands. Orlesians believe the phoenix is a herald of woe. The phoenix ( _L. **fen** ix_) can also symbolise renewal, the sun, time and the exceptional man. But the scales falling from Virla’s eyes are also the scales of justice.

The painter’s skin pulsed silver in the moonlight… or memory of moonlight, since the moon was gone. They seemed to stand atop the tall thin tower in the middle of the lake, roof open to the sky. A gleaming barrier of magic held a hemisphere above them, preserving them from violet rain and acid lightning. Everything within was black as night, as ash, as death, as final as betrayal and as dark, except its skin.

Its face, _his_ face, from which the starlight pulsed, was veiled with pain. Even the distance between them ached. _One arm’s length. Close enough to touch!_

The Void beyond the barrier was loud and bright and filled with nightmares. Chaos. Demons circling.

The Void within was higher than the sky, and deeper than the lake, and wider than horizons. Empty.

She couldn’t even look at it, nor look away. It looked like Solas, who was gone. Somewhere up there, swallowed whole, and _eaten_. _There is no core, and only lies. The Silence of the Universe itself._

“An idea in my mind,” she spat at it. “A complex, awkward kind of man. Immortal, possibly a god. Indefinite, and ill-defined. And yet… so very _definite_ in his ideas, opinions, aims and goals. I _loved_ him.”

It flinched. “This isn’t the place to get angry, Virla. I can’t maintain this barrier unless you help me.”

She glared at it, palms twitching with fire. “You **never** called me Virla. So that proves you are a demon.”

His own hands remained behind his back. “Or implies the opposite. Demons rarely change their tactics.”

“Rarely, not never. _You_ would no doubt be the exception.” _And yet… I am the one who’s doubting._

Behind the painter, a deeper blackness skulked within the black. It closed its eyes, _his_ blue-grey eyes. Try as she might, she couldn’t make out six of them – still only two, and neither of them seeing truth.

“You have every right to be angry…” it began, then faltered. “I meant to see this through. I meant to. But, but I… can’t _make_ you do this. If I do, then everything I worked for, everything I’ve cared about…”

She tilted her head to one side, appraising him. _No, **it**._ “Still proud, _Solas_? Did all your agents serve willingly? Did they all know what they were doing, all the time? Or is this just another hopeless battle?”

He shook his head, compressed his lips. Behind him, a huge monstrous beast reared upwards, blotting out the sky, such as it was. In the periphery of vision, the few remaining stars winked out, one by one.

_All gone._

He shuddered, uncontrollably prolonged, and did not look away to see them fall. She knew that it still saw her through closed eyes. Then she heard the tranquil voice outside of the Fade, a talking in his sleep.

“We must also die, beloved. We are elvhen also. The last. If we perish, then the world is free. Believe it.”

She shook her head to clear the sound, pressing it into the mattress, not sure if her companions in the Fade, beast or painter, had heard the voice. _We are the last elvhen; never again shall we…_

“Submit!” roared the Nightmare, clawing at the barrier. Its creator opened eyes and _looked_ at her, and she believed that he _was_ Fen’Harel: his soul; a memory of him; his spirit. Like Justinia – _I am here to help_.

Then at last he tore his gaze away, the mask pulled down so firmly that she almost heard the clang. He swept his hands around him, pushing out the barrier and tripling its strength. _This one wants to live._

As her anger faded, fear set in, transferring her attention from the man who had… apparently _not_ been fucking her so literally… or at least not in her dreams… but anyway. The _beast_ … that was the real threat!

Virla cast her barrier below his, smoothing out and reinforcing it where the Nightmare’s thrusts had nearly pierced it. Her magic sparkled violet, a thinner layer below the thicker bluish gleam: a lower atmosphere.

“How long do we need to keep this up?” she yelled, after a few minutes. Sweat trickled down her face with the exertion, and she could see the effort it was costing him as well, to keep them both alive. Blows rained down, and lightning. Fearlings biting at the edges: burnt back with fire and flame, or frozen.

He didn’t answer, so she tried again: “Do you have a plan?”

“Not a good one,” he called back, wincing as the Nightmare’s claws tore through and scraped along the stones, the sound of manic laughter – no longer kept out by the barriers – echoing off the tower’s walls.

As one they rebuilt the torn barriers, Virla dipping deep into her mana. The well was deeper than she’d thought, and she poured her heart out up into the sky. “Well, what is it, then?” she gasped.

“Try not to die,” he retorted, moving closer. There was a lyrium potion in his hand; he tossed it to her.

She knocked it back, and the horde of fearlings; remembered Blackwall. “Does it have a weakness?”

Whatever he would have answered was swallowed up in terror as the Nightmare rose into the sky and prepared to throw itself against the barrier, all claws and maw and craw at once.

Solas grabbed her hand – her only hand, the right one. “Your spirit sword. Quick, raise your other hand!”

He stood behind her, right hand interlinked with hers, and other arm around her waist, to steady her. She raised her hand – that still did not exist – and willed herself a sword. It was the Inquisition’s sword, the templar’s sword, the sword of Faith. _Raised in defence of magic,_ she thought, wryly, _as Andraste wanted._

And then everything happened all at once.

****

She opened her eyes, to see the absence of three arms, and pushed herself up hurriedly, her fair hair streaming over silver nightshirt to her waist, heart beating several hundred times a minute.

He was there. He hadn’t gone.

Virla took a deep breath and lay back against the pillows. He sat beside the bed and sobbed. Loudly, unrestrainedly; rocking to and fro; his arms around his knees and head on top of them.

She dared not approach him, not till she knew who he was, or _what_ , and wondered if she should call for the spirits, ask them to fetch Abelas. Or Tallis. But what if _she_ herself had been corrupted too?

Three impressions danced within her mind, bereft of narrative.

First, the violet lightning arcing to her sword from deep _within_ the Nightmare’s maw, striking back within its heart; or where its heart would be in future if she put it there. _Fear… predates… every emotion… save perhaps… desire,_ a voice reminded her, phrases in between the swift sharp thrusts and cuts, spurting memory of blood and guts and every foul, unpleasant smell forgotten to remember. _Forget. Forget._

Then a single, disembodied voice of Fen’sulevin calling from the lightning: _Never again! I **will** protect her! _

Finally, the Nightmare screaming, shrieking as it fell away from fear, torn between its purpose to feed on her terror and its new ingested purpose that it would protect her from them all. Desire and fear hung in the balance, she and Solas watching it intently, barely breathing, breathing far too fast… and seeing it resolve to… _envy,_ came the whisper, shocked. She had been too shocked to move, as it reached out, with all four arms, to grab for her. He leapt in front. _No, he **stepped** in front. _ A Fade step… trickster to the end.

Not quite bereft of narrative, on recollection; waking. It grabbed him, and they both woke: him, then her.

When she’d woken, she was warm from his embrace. He’d already left the bed, to weep.

To _weep._ Her sluggish brain connected one more tree, and she was glad that she had waited for it. Tranquil princes did not weep, nor did those possessed by envy demons. _Remember Seeker Lucius._

“Solas…” she whispered, sliding off the bed to sit beside him. “Solas… did it join you back together?”

The only answer was a high-pitched moan. She slipped her arm around him, as he clamped his own more tightly round his knees, the loss of control all the more terrifying for the contrast with his previous state.

She tried again, her hand stroking his shoulder in futile comfort against the silken fabric of his nightshirt, through his aura. “Solas… Fen’Harel… my lord, _vhenan…_ I’m here. _Tel’enfenim._ ”

Outside, the sky was thick grey god, no, thick grey _fog_ , and threatening; but _real_ , and he was _home_. Bright lightning flashing coral, orange, blue. His thoughts were almost deafening in thunder: incoherent, desperate, and loud enough for her to hear his inner screaming when she closed her eyes. _That’s new._

She tried to remember what Cassandra’s letters said about the struggles Tranquil mages had when they were reunited with emotions on reversal of the Rite. _They suffer greatly, Virla, first because the strength of feeling almost overwhelms them, then because their memories are clouded, and they know that **that** was wrong. Tantrums. Panic. Sometimes, a desire for vengeance. Sometimes they just want to die. _

She found herself crooning the Dalish… elvhen… lullaby that he’d sung to her, once.

_Tel’enfenim, da’len. Irassal ma ghilas. Ma garas mir renan. Ara ma’athlan vhenas. Ara ma’athlan vhenas._

Slowly, he controlled the thunder, calmed the lightning, silenced his own sobbing. Only fog remained. On her seventh repetition of the lullaby, he raised his head and laid it back against the bed, eyes barely open.

His eyes were rimmed with red. Tears streamed down his cheeks and nose. His voice was a bare whisper, hoarse and underused, but _his own voice_. “I am… g… glad… to see you still…”

Then he broke into a fresh round of weeping, and she gathered his head against her shoulder clumsily, longing for another arm to hold him with. She’d no idea what to say, but continued rubbing circles on his shoulder blades, making sympathetic noises. As if he were some small child who had tripped up in the forest on a hunt, and not the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel himself; and not a hugely powerful…

“Solas,” she said, more sharply this time. “Won’t the Nightmare come back for you? For your power.”

He nodded, shuddering, and clutched his arms around her waist in hopelessness. A stab of pain wrenched through her heart: to have him, here, and then to lose him… but, to what? To an _Envy_ demon?

 _Envy demons have three weaknesses,_ had said the author of the fresco, speaking with his voice. _They always long to possess those with greater power than their current host; they are vulnerable when changing between hosts; and then they can be overwhelmed with enough lyrium._

“Solas,” said Virla for the fourth time, this time a command. _Inquisitor._ She let her arm fall back, away from him. “We must get down to the Deep Roads. We need lyrium.”

“We c… can’t fight the N… Nightmare d… directly,” he stammered. “It’s t… too powerful. The horror…”

“It’s not Fear now, though, it’s Envy. So we need a lyrium spring. What’s the quickest way to get to one?”

“S… spring follows w… winter,” he cackled, as she dragged him to his feet. And something in her snapped.

“I am not your Keeper, Dread Wolf,” she said, looking up at him, lips set thin. “This is _your_ fight.”

“No real g… god need prove himself,” he echoed, limply, but she knew _he_ knew what she’d referred to.

So she waited, while he closed his eyes and breathed: once and twice and thrice; a hasty, desperate meditation, shorn of peace or pageantry; simply seeking Solas. She would give him time to dress.

****

“I’ve never seen you look distraught like that,” she said, continuing the theme, as they convened back in the library so that he could find a map: dressed in elvhen armour, gold and silver, not quite matching.

He didn’t meet her eyes, but stared down at the footstool on the ground. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

 _Yes, you are, this time,_ she thought, and waited, as he tried to form some words.

“I w… will t… try to explain. On the way. I w… won’t leave you now. Unless you w… want me to. B… but…”

He was staring at the absence of the gauntlet where her arm was not. His pair, pride-shaped, were left upon the desk. Suddenly self-conscious in the presence of the footstool and the flush of his restrained desire, she looked away as well, remembering her naked body, his as well, and a wolf’s wet tongue.

_Have we had sex, or haven’t we? I know now that the spirit/demon of desire was Fen’sulevin, but…_

He shook his head, perhaps also uncertain what to say, and began to search the shelves to find the map. “I c… can access both the streams of memory,” he said, answering one of her unspoken questions, “although there may be gaps. I remember, from a long way back, that Abelas…”

He broke off, and laid his head against the wooden shelf, oppressed by dark emotions swelling.

“That Abelas…?” she prompted, shyly. Then the realisation dawned, like falling stars. “Oh! Oh, no!”

“Yes,” he said, his head snapping round to glare at her. “Ye-es. I killed them. All those that remained.”

“No, the Nightmare killed them,” she said, automatically, because _it could not be._ Not _Abelas._

He swept a ream of scrolls off from a shelf, narrowly avoiding smashing a glass vase that had been placed to grace the row. Virla stalked across and snatched the vase to safety, placing it on another, higher, shelf.

“Did you _order_ them to sacrifice their lives within the Fade just now? Compel them? _Make_ them?”

“They chose to be preserved within the veilfire of my memories,” said the prince, no longer tranquil. He knelt down and plucked a single scroll out of the chaos, tied with silver velvet ribbon.

“But you saved me,” said Virla, pugnaciously, her eyes on the scroll.

“You saved yourself.”

“No,” she repeated, as he stood to his full height and frowned back down at her. “ _You_ saved _me._ You maintained the barriers with me. Then you stepped in front of me. Wouldn’t let the demon touch me.”

“I… I… can’t remember that,” he admitted, panic darting fast across his face.

“Then how can you remember what happened to the other elvhen? All I saw were stars consumed.”

“I c… could hear them. I can hear them. None of them are truly gone. The first of my People…”

He was shaking, torn between joy and sorrow, the scroll crushed ruinously within long fingers.

Virla put her hand, now gauntleted, up to his arm. “If Abelas was here, what would he tell you now?”

Solas closed his eyes to listen. “He w… would… he is telling me to t… tell you that… that… I ought to teach you how to mend your arm. That nothing is inevitable. Also, not to crush this scroll.” Virla’s heart leapt in her chest, as he secured the scroll within his belt, and held his hands out round the place where her arm once had been. “Hold out your left arm. Focus on the way it looked within the Fade.”

“I’ve tried that. I can’t get it to stay here, this side of the Veil. It’s just an illusion.” She showed him it.

“It isn’t, though. It’s real.”

It _was_ real. She gasped, and flexed the fingers. They were stiff, but worked. “How did you _do_ that?”

“You’re elvhen now. Imagination shapes reality. You wanted to believe in it, I got you to.”

She shook her head in smiling disbelief, touching her face with her new – _old –_ left palm. “And now I’m not sure this is not the Fade. But if it’s not, we’d better use that map. I must retrieve the other gauntlet.”

“Wait! Don’t go,” he said, hand on her right elbow as she turned. “Ask me what _Sophiyel_ would tell me.”

They knew each other well enough, it seemed. Virla turned back into him, her smile finding an answering gleam of sunlight, rainbow-bright within his eyes. His lips sought hers with tenderness. The kiss was shy and slow, not desperate: a promise not to hurt her any more. And when, eventually, it ended, and they sought refuge in each other’s eyes, they smiled through tears; and Solas knew what love looked like at last.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting towards the end... of this story, at least.


	60. Sacrifice, high over waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He did not wear his scarlet coat, for blood and wine are red…” – Oscar Wilde, [_The Ballad of Reading Gaol_](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ballad-reading-gaol)  
>   
>  Highever weave tints robes dark red. This chapter is posted on [All Soul’s Day](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Calendar), 1 August, a year since I uploaded Mind Heart. It marks the start of Matrinalis, the month dedicated to Andraste. All Soul’s Day commemorates her trial by fire and is an adaptation of Funalis in honour of Dumat. Hence, the sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: 128 kudos, a double chessboard. Thank you! <3

“You must be thinking I’m a naïve fool,” said Virla softly, her new hand sliding up to stroke his cheek.

Closing his eyes briefly, he leant into the caress, still faintly smiling. “I wasn’t thinking that, _vhenan_.”

“Even so.” She removed her hand deliberately, to place it with the other one, behind her back, and took a breath. “Most people do not have to make the kinds of choices we have made, or may still need to make. I’m willing to believe that you did what you thought was best. I also think you _need_ me, to remind you that this world has value. And I think you know that too. You wanted me to follow you, to stop you.”

His smile had faded. “You had succeeded, up to now. I killed no-one directly. My orders have endangered no-one else. The elvhen served as soldiers and they knew the risks. The demon is obsessed with us alone.”

Solas had fallen into mirroring her posture, as she had mirrored his familiar pose. It now conveyed to her the impression of a veteran commander, too experienced to squander energy outside of battle. Only his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil, red-rimmed and shifting focus, darting here and there around the room.

It felt like this was… _negotiation_. Worth spending precious minutes on, for future clarity. Thankfully, her mind felt clearer than it had done for some time. “What did you expect to happen? In my dreams.”

A faint flush stained his cheeks. “I assumed – wrongly – that I would be the stronger; that my desire would far exceed your own. I knew that Fen’sulevin would become corrupted at some point, then we would have had to kill him. Before and after that, I could control your dreams until your waking eyes turned golden.”

“You mean I love you more than you love me?”

“No. Desire and love are not the same. Indeed…” His expression took on a faraway cast, as if something suddenly made sense, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “Apparently, I _only_ loved you.”

“You have never been in love before?”

He had been staring at his feet, but looked up sharply at this. “That’s not what I meant. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“There is a sense in which that would be a correct description.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It would take too long to explain. What I _meant_ was that my love for you was never corrupted to desire. I assumed it must have been. But, when Fen’sulevin watched you – us – from the Fade, that first time, he…”

Solas bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if his head ached. Angry flames sprang to his fingers. She jerked his hand away before he burnt himself, her gloved right hand encircling his wrist.

“Virla, it is right that I should suffer,” he admonished her. “It was my miscalculation once again.” 

She shook her head, but did not yet release his wrist. “Love is complicated. Just ask Varric.”

“I… might, some day.” He swallowed, watching as the flames died down and then continued, far more gently: “Once I realised what had happened, the only hope remaining was to allow your dreams to be controlled by Fen’sulevin, but watch so that he never hurt you.”

Virla let go of his wrist, staring at the silver velvet ribbon on the scroll. “And my desire was not enough…”

“Fen’sulevin’s capacity to reflect it, rather.” His lips twisted in dark amusement at some private joke.

“Why do you call Fen’sulevin _him_? You told me, when we first met him, that I ought to think of him as _it_.”

Solas’ body tensed with sudden grief, and she was almost tempted to withdraw the question. “ _Dirthara-ma_ ,” he responded, frowning. Aimed more at himself, she guessed, than her. It struck her belatedly that they had been conversing in the common tongue. A choice, perhaps, like saying Virla, not Virlath?

“He was once an elvhen agent called Felassan. My agent. You’ll have heard the name. The spirit that you met was what was left of him: a purpose to protect the things of value in this world. Particularly women.”

“Briala?”

“Yes, but not just her. A thousand years ago, he called himself Shartan, and loved Andraste.”

If he hadn’t looked so miserable about it, she would have suspected him of duplicity, or even of a cheap joke at her expense. “You’re telling me I’ve been fucking Shartan in my dreams?!”

Her anger was a mistake. He spat back, bitterly: “What, is he too _old_ for you? You were _thinking_ of _me_.”

It would not do to provoke him, while his emotions were this new and fragile. She took a breath and answered as mildly as she could: “Yes, I was. All right. Spirits are people, and yet in this case _he was you_ , in my mind, right up until the illusion broke. But he was someone else to you, before.”

“Perhaps I should not have told you,” he admitted. “Or at least, not now. I’m sorry. We don’t have time.”

She nodded, and with an effort forced her mind back to the future. “No, we don’t. To summarise, then. We both know that you know far more than me. You have goals and plans that I’m not privy to. These may need to use me as a pawn, as mistress, sacrifice, or vessel. For your sake it is better that I give consent.”

He flinched, as if the words were a caress. _He watched me, listened to me; could not hold me._

Her voice trembled only slightly. “For now, I am willing to… continue as your mistress… if you wish it, if that helps defeat the Nightmare or preserves our people. Not as a pawn. I do not say I _trust_ you.”

“And therefore… I cannot betray that trust,” he concluded, anguish darkening his eyes. “Yet… I do wish it.”

“Yes. Indeed. Should we go now?”

“The fog will hold a little longer.” With all the emotions flickering across his face, sadness was most prevalent. “Virla, we have much to discuss, but I… I was wondering what had driven you to make your red hair blonde. The part of me that was here did not realise it had changed; the other part of me was blind.”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you call me Virla,” she countered. Her hair was tied back messily, one-handed, in a ponytail. With two hands she could braid it. “Was that what you intended to ask? Truly?”

 _Because it didn’t work in Crestwood, hiding, and it won’t work now._ _You’re whole enough to know that._

He managed not to take a step away. “You’re right: the colour of your hair, while equally as beautiful, is ultimately not important. Virla is your name, and you prefer it to Virlath; it is appropriate that that fact ought to weigh more with me…” He broke off, shaking his head slightly. “I’m sorry, _vhenan_. Old habits and old masks are difficult to renounce, especially when the situation…”

After a pause, he tried a third time, while she willed him on. “ _If_ we defeat the Nightmare, and survive, I… I should like to court you properly. To have the time to prove I’m worthy of your trust. To be together while I strive to improve myself. That fight is mine, but I am not too proud to spurn assistance now, it seems.”

She turned this over in her mind, before it clicked. “Are you asking me to _marry_ you, Solas?”

His eyes caught hers, a guileless flash of blue: _Yes._ Words fell quickly: “I cannot, yet. It would be under false pretences: selfish, irresponsible. You scarcely know yet what it means to be immortal, to be…”

“But there _are_ no other elvhen,” she interrupted, ruthlessly suppressing the bright joy that threatened to overwhelm her. _Do not throw yourself away._ “Do you truly expect me to believe you wish to be alone?”

He shook his head. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“Next time you have to mourn… you don’t need to be alone. That’s what I said. Let’s honour that.”

“I did not want this for you, Virla.”

“I think that there are many things you did not want.” A faint smile touched her lips as she reached up to touch his face once more, and felt him shudder. “Let’s try to survive, first. Then, perhaps, I will court _you_.”

****

They had said nothing more until they reached the first eluvian, although she fancied that he seemed a little calmer, more composed, more focused on the task in hand. Somehow, and entirely irrationally, she felt _Envy_ was a weaker threat than _Fear_ : more abstract. Solas paused before the mirror, bringing it alive.

The surface remained opaque to her, and iridescent. “Where are we going?”

“First, the Shrine of Fen’Harel. Then, to meet the author of the runes apparently behind my fresco.”

“Oh… Who _was_ he, actually?”

His face was hidden from her, but his voice was harsh. “It would be easier to show you.”

He stepped through the mirror, and she followed as quickly as she could, resisting the thought that it would be the first of many chances he would have to slip away. It didn’t _feel_ like he would do that, but…

And they were back among the stone Qunari, lightly coated now with raven droppings. “I would want to release them now,” said Solas, “but it would attract attention. We don’t have time to do it slowly.”

The trees were bright with spring verdure. Six months, perhaps, had passed. She knew that she had lost track of the days and weeks while in Aratishan with him; her memories were hazy still. “Do they suffer?”

“No, they are dead. It is their spirits that I would release.”

They had reached the top of the waterfall, babbling bright and cheerful in the ruins. Birds sang overhead.

“Why are we here?” asked Virla, as he stopped to frown up at the great eluvian.

“Not simply for nostalgia, though…” He broke off, as if seeing memories alive around them, then turned to where she stood beside him. “Take my hand.”

She stood dumbly for a second, frozen by a terror she could not explain. _This is where you took it._

“ _Tel’enfenim_ , _vhenan_. This is not a time for sundering. Nonetheless, I will remove your glove.”

The flash of his dry humour reassured her. Solas leant down, aura brushing hers, and took her unresisting left hand – tiny, unimportant – in his grasp, slowly sliding off the gauntlet. Not removing his own, he brushed a metal thumb across the surface of her palm. He watched intently as a faint blue line appeared.

“It was green, before,” said Virla, raising anxious eyes to his. “What changed it?”

“It is not apparent. Perhaps it now responds to you, since you are elvhen. Try casting a barrier around us.”

She did it, and inspected the hand immediately after. “That looks silver now. Just like my eyes.”

They watched the line gradually return to blue, then fade completely. Solas’ face was thoughtful. “Before the Fade became corrupted, it would have turned gold, like the Golden City at its heart. This is new.”

“Moon, not sun or Void. On a scale from black to gold, how good is silver?”

“You are remembering the fresco runes.” At her look of surprise, he added: “I saw them in your memories, star-bright, so I copied them to study them and learn. I copied nothing else, not even your reactions to them. _Ir abelas._ It will never happen again... unless you give consent.”

She _wanted_ to believe him. “Can you read anybody’s mind? Like Cole used to.”

“To a varying extent. Cole could read whatever was connected to somebody’s pain. I am intrinsically tied to the Fade and to the Veil. I can read other Dreamers’ minds, or manifested spirits’ minds, most easily. The author of the fresco is linked to Thedas and, again, the Veil, and tends to influence via faith.”

“You don’t approve?”

“I didn’t, no. The runes – and how they influenced you, I assume – were an offering by him to our peace negotiations. Maybe they are truly in the Skyhold walls, but he also could have planted them directly into Dagna’s mind when she experimented with red lyrium. The Veil is thin in her mind… even though she is a dwarf. She sees magic and she fiddles with it, making it serve man – or woman – like Andraste did.”

“And will the attempt succeed? To negotiate a peace, I mean?”

His gaze tracked from her face back to the mirror, ears tinged pink. _Embarrassed?_ He watched the ravens pirouetting in the sky, and stood straighter. “They feel it coming too. I wish we had more time, _vhenan_.”

She’d looked up to the sky as well, but could not read the signs as well as he did. “Something’s coming?”

He ignored this question too, and spoke rapidly. “You must choose. If you go through the great eluvian, you will gain Mythal’s soul. The soul of love and motherhood and justice. It carries memories and duties. If you don’t, I must compel Morrigan to take it, and trust the voices from the Vir’Abelasan to guide her.”

“But you would prefer I took it.”

“Yes. Also, it will let you shapeshift into dragon form, as Morrigan did at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Great Ones of the dragons must be shared, and this yields you its heart.”

“That sounds useful,” said Virla, neutrally. “Is it… corrupted? Mythal’s soul, I mean.”

“It does not carry the Blight, if that is what you mean. Flemeth carried it for ages before she placed it here. It is both dangerous, and… useful.” He blushed, and stammered: “I wish I had had time to c… court you.”

Virla put her ungloved hand on his arm, intending to calm him, and he jumped back as if scalded.

“What is troubling you, Solas? You know that you must tell me what I ought to know.”

“We stood here and I said that I had not lain with you under false pretences. You told me that I’d lied to you. I cannot lie. The purpose of the Mother dragon is to birth the People. Re-birth. Not all at once, but slowly, so that they can learn to live in harmony with humans. This is what I meant about a new Mythal and Elgar’nan. And the first brood should not be d… delayed, in case the Nightmare captures one of us.”

“But surely it is in the Fade, and…”

Her voice trailed off, and he frowned down at her. “Do you propose to go without sleep, _vhenan_? When it touched me, restoring the connections that it tore out when I pulled the Anchor deep into the Fade, I woke, and made you wake up. It is waiting just across the Veil. Envy’s mastery is hiding in plain sight. Great dragons sleep with half their minds awake, so we would have a chance to counter it. I hope.”

He was clearly terrified. She lifted up her chin. “I said that I would be your mistress. I will do this.”

“I did not want this for you, Virla,” he repeated, looking at his feet. “I’m not sure it will even work.”

She put her hands up to his face and made him look at her. “I’m not sure that I’m doing it for you. The Dalish brought me up to do my duty for the clan. If you need me to bear children, I will do that.”

 _Posturing is necessary, Virlath._ She could feel his eyes upon her back as she walked to the eluvian, alone. It was even larger than she had remembered, dragon-sized. Whatever thoughts he had about the Dalish way of life, he’d had the tact to swallow them before he followed her. _The decisions were mine, Fen’Harel._

****

The soul felt like a well of magic, deep within her heart; like half of an ancient chant of bliss.

The memories were fleeting glimpses at the corners of her mind: flame and ice and song. He’d told her that they might take days – or weeks, or years – to sharpen up enough for her to see them in her dreams.

The wings were… huge and blue and awkward. An effort that might have propelled her raven half a foot across the room sent her hurtling up or down a hundred feet. Solas had insisted that she take some time to practise, and so he sat cross-legged beside the eluvian, enjoying watching – in her view, far too much.

Exceedingly clumsily, she landed close to him, scraping one wing against a tree and stumbling painfully on her forelegs. Ravens didn’t have hind legs, nor this heavy, unwieldy, _graceless_ tail.

She shivered back to her elven – _elvhen_ – form, in a pulse of silver light. Solas seemed quite far away, now she had to walk on two unsteady legs. He got to his feet to greet her, emphasising her smallness. She wondered if it was deliberate. As soon as she had claimed the soul, a weight seemed to have lifted from his chest. He’d even laughed, as he sat down to watch her; but now she just felt hot and flustered.

“Not bad, _vhenan._ Though do try to avoid the trees on landing.”

She flushed. “Wouldn’t it be better if you transformed and I could observe how you do it?”

“Let me kiss you and I will,” he smirked.

Biting her lip, she nodded, knowing that his flirting was an act: true, but also _useful_ in assuring her that he was in control. She traced a claw – a _finger –_ hard along his jaw. “I always kiss you at this time of day.”

“I want the other half of me to feel it,” he insisted, chuckling. “No point in creating any more envy.”

“That’s _not funny_. Shouldn’t we be getting going?”

He pressed the briefest kiss upon her lips, the light mood vanishing like smoke. His arm was round her waist, and she leaned into him, her head against his armoured chest, his chin resting upon her hair.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan,_ ” he whispered. “I’ll be right behind you. I will guide you. Fly through this eluvian then straight towards the sun.”

He let her go, and watched her as she shifted, span a circle in the air then breached the surface of the great eluvian, flying between the wolf and dragon, rippling in the magic as it danced along her scales.

She flew out over the waterfall, within the Shrine of Fen’Harel, then looped to set her flight path for the sun. Everything was layered with history, to dragon eyes: lingering traces of past magic, tingling from the Veil. She wondered if she might catch glimmers of herself or Saarath.

And then, she caught first scent of him, soaring from the mirror upwards, heading straight for her. Primal panic set in, purely elven, as she veered down wildly, seeking to avoid a crash, but not succeeding. Black claws clamped around her legs and belly. He pulled her higher, gaining speed with each beat of his wings.

Every nerve and fibre of her body tingled in response to his display of power. Some small and stubborn part of her was thinking: _female dragons usually far exceed drakes in size. I did not expect this either._

 _The dragons of today are lesser creatures, not worthy of such beauty,_ screamed his voice above her.

She had just enough time to wonder that she knew draconic before her mind was emptied by the scent of him: like a field of elfroot and dawn lotus sharp after a thunderstorm; mossy altars; blood and veilfire.

Far below, she glimpsed the sea. Twisting in his grasp, she freed her wings and let them beat below his, her dragon heart pounding a deafening crescendo even drowning out the rush of the wind and flame across her face and body. She’d never been more glad that she had practised as a raven, encouraged by the prince he’d been: fluttering around the garden, safe within the wards from predators and winds alike.

This was rough, and dangerous, and so was he. She found she did not miss the garden.

Suddenly, and without any warning, she felt six sharp thrusts within her, and they screamed together.

 _That was… quick,_ she muttered, as he disengaged. Without his wings to guide her, Virla fell a hundred feet, before she achieved a glide, her blue scales shimmering with sweat and magic.

Odd that he was falling still, a black mass far below her. Could dragons faint? She’d no idea. Snarling at her own incompetence, she swooped down messily, a jumble of tail and wings and limbs, half-falling.

When at last she was down by him, scarcely fifty feet above the surface, she was aching from the effort. Clasping her legs painfully around his body as he had done hers, she managed to crash-land them on a beach. _The Storm Coast of the Waking Sea._

But, despite her screams, his eyes were glazed and dim, and nothing woke him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next part to be updated will be chapters in [Out of the dimness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7030597/chapters/15997579), although I might complete the last four chapters of this first before I catch up to this point of the story in that. I haven't decided yet! If you've any preference feel free to leave it in the comments.


	61. Dwarves and deepstalkers hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Dragonchess](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragonchess) is a three-dimensional variant, with three levels representing the air, the land and the subterranean realm. Dwarves move on the lowest level one square at a time, forwards or sideways only, and capture either diagonally forward or to the square directly above it on the land, like a stone general.

Strange, to be so powerful, and yet so lost. For the second time that day, she stared at Solas, wondering what he was, and what to do. But this time they were dragons: her scales azure, his dark grey, with rain and sea spray coursing down them both. He was breathing, still, white puffs of mist emerging from his nostrils, so that was something. As far as she could tell, he had no wounds on him, magical or otherwise.

At first, she’d screamed at him to wake, panic overcoming caution, but the high-pitched dragon screams emerging from her mouth had simply terrified her more. She’d almost shifted back to elven form, on instinct, before a stab of memory prevented her: _don’t shapeshift when you’re carrying a baby. The wisdom of Mythal_ – so Morrigan had said, almost spitting out the name – _passed down through the ages._

 _What if I’m carrying his child, already?_ Thrusting the thought of pregnancy away, she tried to push into the Fade with only half her mind, but whatever trick it was eluded her. _I’ll have to try again tonight._

That he’d stayed in dragon form, was – on balance – positive, she decided. When Morrigan had fallen, bleeding, in the fight against Corypheus, she’d been shifted back to human form. What if Solas were fighting with the Envy demon, somewhere in the Fade? _Great dragons sleep with half their mind awake_ , he’d said, _so we would have a chance to counter it. I hope._ She would have to hope so, too.

The scale of her own ignorance was frightening. The library at Aratishan had been packed with scrolls, but most of them were art or poetry: beautiful but useless. What little she knew of dragons came from scattered conversations with Frederic of Serault… but they had surely only talked of beasts, not elvhen also. And what had happened in the last six months? Nothing Tallis said had worried her, but was that because she withheld all the truth? Or because she herself had been so in thrall to the…

Is this the Fade? She wondered if she’d ever be certain about anything, again.

Virla stared out at the sea, and at the silent, sleeping dragon. Three years ago, she’d rescued him from similar unconsciousness by finding him within the Fade, below the earth. Rocks, waves, spindleweed, black lotus: all were present there as well, though the sea was lyrium, not saltwater. _Hmm. I’m thirsty._

****

Several hours now, and she was getting hungry. She’d slaked her thirst with rain, but would need to fly around to eat. The dragon Vinsomer had hunted gurns along this stretch of coast; they’d killed _her_ not long after Solas abandoned her at Crestwood. But there were also giants, pirates, possibly Qunari raiders.

High above Vinsomer’s lair, northwest of Morrin’s Outlook and of Daerwin’s Mouth, had stood an old abandoned dwarven hall within a massive cave. Bull and Dorian had scouted it, while Cole had held her hand and tried to comfort her. It was large and empty, dry and safe. If she could carry Solas there, she could ward the entrance while she hunted food, and keep him safe from trophy hunters.

_You’re here, this time. I’ll guard you in your sleep. This time I’ll sweep **you** off your feet with magic._

****

Even lifting him with magic (practised with a fallen tree), she was exhausted by the time she spied the enormous pair of dwarven statues guarding the abandoned hall. Her limbs and wings ached painfully. The hall appeared not to have been affected by the earthquakes, and had been clear of darkspawn and red lyrium. She’d laid Solas’ body near the back wall, lowering it as gently as she could, folding back his wings and legs into what she hoped would be a comfortable position; checked he was still breathing, not awake.

With a wall of ice across the entrance as a barrier, she’d flown outside to hunt for gurn like Vinsomer had done. In the Wastes she’d watched as wyverns tore a gurn apart. She’d hunted birds and rabbits all her life with fire and arrows, then druffalo and quillbacks, gurn and wyverns. _I can do this._

Now, as she flew back, another gurn clamped tightly in her jaws, the sun was setting, flaming all the sea with red and gold. Some small part of her mind, less numbed, was whispering that it was beautiful, the view magnificent; that it was worth it all to fly like this. That, even if she died, she would have lived.

Virla burnt the ice away and flew into the dwarven hall. She landed close beside her dragon lover, sharp claws grating upon the stone and leaving tracks of blood. Her heart sank as she realised: _still no change._

As she laid her head down, roosting near the entrance, she remembered poor Lieutenant Renn, the Legion of the Dead commander, asking about Skyhold. He’d have loved to see her as a dragon, she’d no doubt.

 _How does it “hold” in the sky? / It’s built… into a mountain,_ she had laughed. _/ Ah. Held by the Stone, then._

Eyes closing, her last thought was: _Fen’sulevin once was **Shartan**. He… he… truly, all this shit is weird._

****

She was a dragon, but here, inside her, she was still elven, possibly elvhen, certainly _his_. He was a dragon, but he was missing: not in this thaig-hall, not in this… lift?

The part of her mind that was still awake could open one eye to check that Solas was still there, his grey scales reddened by the dim light of the lava in the walls. Her wall of ice still held. They were not moving.

But, in the Fade, the hall was descending, taking them downwards, taking them down. Faint voices chanted, at edge of hearing; faint sounds of worship; raised from below.

Sitting on the stone and dressed in Dalish robes – arms clasped tightly around her knees, heart filled with dread, alone – Virla waited for the lift to slow its descent. Solas talked of Razikale, of Lusacan; she recalled fighting emissaries, genlocks, shrieks. Desperate, she called for Caritas. Predictably, no answer came.

_There are no darkspawn in the Fade, right?_

Virla looked down, and saw a row of tiny dwarven dragon statuettes arrayed in front of her, commanded by a silver one, no bigger than her hand. As the lift reached the base of the shaft, it flew off, pursued by all the other statuettes. With no obvious alternative, she followed them for hours through winding caverns (stale, forgotten); under lyrium stars (blue-bright); by the buried sea; and out into the Wellspring cavern.

There was no-one here, no-one to distract her from her thoughts: _Why here? Where’s Solas? Where’s the envy demon?_ That dwarven saying: _A fool trusts his eyes. A wise man fears every rock is a deepstalker._

They had left Valta to her fate in such a place, and whether she was wise or foolish, Virla still couldn’t decide. The stone balustrade was carved – or grown? – with the same stylized cup motif she’d seen in many dwarven thaigs. Placing her hands on it to lean across, she looked down to the Titan’s heart.

_Perhaps the Shaper wasn’t wise or foolish. She was faithful. She followed her own beliefs._

  * _As did Mythal, and Andraste. As did you._



The thunderous voice echoed out of nowhere, everywhere, shattering the stillness. A frantic heartbeat splintered into chaos, shaking walls and bridges, like when she’d carried the _Heart of Rage_. Suddenly, the lights in the walls were fading, the chant was growing louder, and the Titan’s heart was turning red.

Virla paused, and looked again. There were no lights in the walls, down here. It had been lit by rays of sunlight. She focused, and the heart was blue again; the trees were green, and all was peaceful.

_Wait. Was that a vision of the future, or…_

Cautiously, she opened an eye. The two giant dwarven statues outside the hall had disappeared, and in their place, beyond the ice, stood two huge rock wraiths, their single eyes and veins bright crimson.

Their rock flails smashed against the ice, gouging shards and leaving jagged fractures. With a sharp intake of vapour from the air, and now fully awake, she breathed out frost to reinforce the weakest parts, and give her time to think. The ice grew less transparent, the stone warriors an angry blur of red behind it.

Her eyes narrowed. If her dream was trying to convey something to her, it ought to be that these were _guardians_ , echoes of a corrupted Titan. Peering through the ice, she made out red lyrium clusters at their base, ugly and distended; fuelling them. She looked backwards, not needing to turn her head, and saw that Solas was still there, still a dragon. The thunder of the guardians’ hammering had not woken him.

A misty dawn light shimmered through the ice. Could she take them on, herself? If she were going to try, then now, while she was relatively fresh, was best. The guardian she’d fought deep underground was vulnerable to lightning, but these looked more like behemoths, immune to sleep or fear, but weak to ice.

She let them break through the frozen wall themselves, saving her own energy for a succession of icy blasts, and tearing at their rocks with claws and teeth. But it was too hard to fight them both herself, and she couldn’t risk one slipping past to Solas. The best that she could do, it seemed, was push them off the edge and build the barrier again before they clambered up the rock face; they did not seem to tire.

Another long exhalation of frost, and the wall was totally repaired. But if she was to keep this up, for… well, however long it took – no reason to assume that they would sleep – she would need water, more food once the gurn was eaten… and they’d both need air to breathe. Thankfully Solas had never eaten much, and in _uthenera_ , if lore were to be believed, he’d drawn his sustenance directly from the Fade.

Perhaps she could do that as well. But if she couldn’t do that, then could she seal him in and push them off the edge while she was hunting? Very risky. _I’d meant this as a refuge, not a trap. I need help._

The guardians continued their deafening assault, red-tinged, and Virla tried not to despair.

She looked up to the heavens, and, to her amazement, caught a glimpse of Caritas’ face. Then realised rain and air were pouring through the roof. With a beat of wings, she flew up to it. Her claws clattered against the ancient basalt roof. Completely solid, yet the rain came in. _This is… impossible._

****

Four long days passed. The guardians hammered; she repaired the wall; was hungry; Solas slept.

She drifted into sleep, or half-sleep. At first, underground, the same dream, endlessly. Then, suddenly a dream where she flew high above the land. To the north were flecks of white, crossing the Minanter River.

_The clouds look smaller to a dragon._

_Wait._ They didn’t move like clouds. Some kind of flying beasts, with… feathers, tail and claws?

_They’re griffons._

Her heart raced painfully, as she beat her wings at double speed, to close the gap to them. Too late she realised… they were heading straight for her, screaming bloody vengeance. Had the Wardens trained them to fight dragons? _Obviously._ Feeling rather stupid, she reversed her course to fly back south.

The griffons carried on with their pursuit. They didn’t gain on her, but neither did they look like giving up. She didn’t want to turn and kill them, even in the Fade, in case it harmed them in reality.

Last night, in her dream, she’d been an elf. What if she tried landing, would they still pursue her?

Virla glided down to stand upon a mountain top. _It’s Sundermount_ , she realised, with a shock, remembering the time she had been here with Varric. But the sky was darker, and the air was cold.

All at once she saw a vision: Flemeth, standing here with Garrett Hawke and Varric, Aveline and Merrill and another mage she didn’t know, but could be Anders. Mythal’s soul had been here before.

Hawke and Flemeth’s voices: _I’m not sure whether she is your daughter, or your enemy. / Neither is she._

The voice of Flemeth… Mythal… Asha-bellanar… continued, mercilessly: “Bodies are such limiting things. I am but a fragment cast adrift from the whole. A bit of flotsam to cling to in the storm! I am a fly in the ointment… a whisper in the shadows… an old, old woman. You do not need to understand, child. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss… when it comes, do not hesitate to leap… only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly… Be a dragon!” And to Hawke: “You could never be a dragon.”

“I feel like there’s a different law at work in this place,” said the memory-Aveline. “Someone else’s rules.”

The vision faded, and she was once more an elf dressed in a leather bodice, hair arrayed in dragon horns like Flemeth, stood before the altar of Mythal. Hawke and his companions vanished, but above, one single griffon flew out from the soaring pack and made as if to land on Sundermount. It had a rider.

The rider looked like Garrett Hawke.

 _Was it? Had she… stepped into his dreams?_ _This meeting was no accident._

She tried to remember etiquette for this – the gentleness, the wariness, above all, the _control_ – from her studies of Tevinter Dreamers’ texts. If this was Hawke’s dream, then he was real and she could talk to him!

Virla turned to face him as he landed: staff in hand, his black hair greyer than the vision.

“Who are you?” he asked, not yet dismounting. The griffon’s razor-sharp beak was at eye-level; she had to look a way up to meet Hawke’s gaze. “I thought you were the dragon. But you look like the Inquisitor.”

“I was the dragon. I am Virla, still the dragon. I can shapeshift now, like Morrigan. Are you truly Hawke?”

“A demon would not have to ask that,” he mused. “Though powerful ones are known to lie.”

“I am not lying.” _Think quickly, Virla._ “But… proving it either way would take time we do not have.”

“That’s what the spirit of Divine Justinia said, when we fell deep into the Fade. But you could be reading that from my own memories. Is Virla… are you… dead, then?” A spasm of grief crossed his face.

She hastened to reassure him. “No, I am not dead, though if you do not help me then I fear I will be. The mark upon my hand made me a Dreamer, just like… Feynriel. I’m trapped, in Vinsomer’s Lair, on Dragon Island, north of the Storm Coast south-east across the Waking Sea from Kirkwall. Red lyrium rock wraiths hold me captive. Please… help me. You’ll need to know I have to stay in dragon form; I can’t shift back.”

To Virla’s relief, Hawke seemed to believe her story. “I’m afraid you’re not the only one who’s trapped.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re on our way to Kirkwall. Varric sent an urgent message telling me the city was besieged by giant rock wraiths, and could I use the griffons to drop in supplies? More in Nevarra and Orlais. We’re trying to find out where they’re coming from, but it seems they simply rose up from the earth. They move fast.”

“ _Seven times seventy men of stone immense_ ,” muttered Virla, her heart sinking. “ _Rose up from the earth like_ _sleepers waking at the dawn, crossing the land with strides immeasurable_? Canticle of Exaltations.”

“Right. Dorian said that too. I think he’s more devout than any of us realised. Look, Virla, I must tell them where you are; and we’ll see if we can help you. They thought you and Solas were still somewhere in the Tirashan. Varric sent us on reports from Sera… and from someone else. He didn’t say from whom.”

“From Tallis, I would guess. You could check that, when you wake, although I might be wrong.”

A faint flush lit Hawke’s cheeks. “Tallis… ah. That would explain why Varric didn’t want to tell me.”

“Rock wraiths aren’t the only danger,” said Virla, conscious that she might wake up at any moment. “The Nightmare demon that we met transformed into a greater envy demon, and it seeks a powerful host. Solas is with me. He’s also a dragon. It might attempt to possess one of us, or even someone else, like you or Dorian. It will copy the host and take its place; we’ll need lots of lyrium to fight it.”

“Well… shit, as Varric would say.” Hawke looked almost… cheerful, at the prospect of a fight. “Wait. I can hear Fenris… think I’m waking up. Look after yourself, Virla. I’ll be…”

  



	62. Blindfold halla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In blindfold chess, players neither see the pieces nor touch them. It has been played for over a thousand years. Ghilan’nain is the blind goddess of navigation and Mother of the Halla, who are sacred to the Dalish. According to Zevran Arainai, elven legend suggests that a halla will lead an elf into the afterlife.

In those few days, out of fearful necessity, Virla had mastered the art of maintaining the frozen wall with one half of her mind, and travelling the Fade with the other. Not unlike using magic in a fight, except with world and Fade reversed: the world was hazy, dark and threatening; the Fade was calm and quiet.

Now that Hawke had gone, had _woken_ , Virla stayed within the dream, for the meagre comfort it offered.

At first, she simply clung on to the hope that Hawke would find someone to help her. But reason quickly intervened: if the rock wraiths were as numerous as he’d described, it would take an army to defeat them all. They’d need the kind of alliances that she had built within the Inquisition; the scale of coalition Warden Aeducan had forged to beat the Blight fourteen – _fifteen?_ – years ago down in Ferelden. Could she help with that, somehow? It would take time. Luck. Hard graft. Sacrifices. Deaths. And time.

 _Time._ The strange passing of time over the last… however long… made a sick kind of sense, now she had time to think about it. She had been possessed, and Solas had known it. Possessed by a desire demon.

  * _A spirit of desire, vhenan. Its only desire was to protect you._



There was that thunderous voice again, disembodied, from below… as if Sundermount itself had spoken.

Virla looked down at her feet, as if to check they were on solid ground, or at least a solid memory of ground. Another puzzle piece of the mosaic. _You can hear my thoughts? What **are** you?_

  * _I must introduce myself, at last?_



_At last? Yes, please, tell me who you are._

  * _The name that you’d best know me as is…_



She waited, scarcely remembering to keep breathing frost against the wall, heart thumping painfully.

“Always so patient, _vhenan_.” 

This time the voice was just like Solas’ voice, and **right behind her**. Virla span around, to find him…

…leaning casually against the altar, eyes bright blue and _laughing_.

An elf. An _elf_. He even looked like Solas, but his mannerisms… were all wrong.

“Who are you?!” she yelled, all control deserting her. She stormed up to him, glaring up into those laughing eyes. The demons could feed if they wished – she had _had_ it with all this!

“The name that you’d be most familiar with is Falon’Din,” he explained, taking her fist as she waved it in his face, and brushing his lips against it. _He is… charming,_ whispered a soft voice in her mind. Not hers, she thought. A female voice. A memory, perhaps?

“Indeed I am,” agreed Falon’Din, his smile broadening infectiously. _Annoyingly._ “But I was speaking to _‘ma Virlath_ here. I saw you liked the veilfire runes I left for you. I thought that you deserved the warning.”

He still had hold of her hand… her right hand. “You warned me about… _you_?”

“That’s right, but not just me. I thought that you deserved to know just how much of a stubborn fool my twin was. Solas. Dirthamen. _Fen’Harel._ You’d have married him despite it all, though, wouldn’t you?”

The blue eyes had lost all of their laughter, and there was something almost pleading in them, as he let go of her fist. If this was Falon’Din, who became the Dalish god of death and fortune, who…

“Are you listening to my thoughts right now?” she accused him, backing away a few steps.

“Would it be easier if I pretended that I wasn’t? I can do that.”

The smile reappeared, not quite reaching his eyes, and this time she almost returned it, except... “You _are_ a bit like Dorian,” she said, instead. “But you said _was._ What happened to him? Where’s he gone?”

He straightened up, both hands slipping behind his back. For a painful moment the resemblance with Solas was complete. Her heart twisted, and she breathed out ice. _No, no, no…_

Virla sank to her knees, weeping bitterly; clutching grass. _Nothing makes sense! NOTHING MAKES SENSE!_

When she looked up, fear and anger warring in her heart, he was sitting cross-legged in front of her, his hands cupped about a glowing orb. **_The_** _orb._ It flickered gold and green; she couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Not everything is lost, _vhenan,_ ” he said, as tears rolled down her cheeks. “The Nightmare is no more.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. He flinched. “Where did it go? Where did _he_ go? Where did he **go**?!”

“I… don’t know,” he sighed. “The rising of the Guardians… the corrupted rock wraiths, the varterrals… that _must_ mean he is gone. His continued life prevented them from rising. His element is earth, of course. Even Dalish legends tell of cities in the mountains loved by Dirthamen; that he created guardian varterrals.”

She could only focus on one part of this. “You think he is dead,” she said, flatly.

Falon’Din stared at the orb, shaking his head slightly. “Had this orb survived… it could not have happened. They’d have had to kill us both at once. But, without the orb…”

“What else was I _meant_ to do?” she cried. Despite her shaking legs, she staggered to her feet and walked around to lean both hands upon the altar, staring at the memory of mountains. “The Breach was growing in the sky, it would have swallowed everything, and something had to heal it. Then I heard a whisper…”

  * _Throw it up there._



She turned around, and Falon’Din had vanished. The stupid orb remained. Silent, still, upon the grass.

 

It had been a mistake the first… _no, it hadn’t._ _It had…_

  * _Saved the world. Quite right. **You** could not have known the orb would break._



And Solas hadn’t known, for sure. _Perhaps some of the past may yet survive,_ he’d said in the rotunda, just before they’d gone to... Anyway. So, who _had_ known? The answer came surprisingly fast. She must have known it all along, but never thought about it, never really thought about the orb. She’d blamed _herself_.

 _I knew you would come, Dread Wolf, she’d said,_ thought Virla, remembering the sorrow etched on Flemeth’s face. _Mythal knew the orb would break. **Mythal** knew the orb would break!!_

_She knew it would break, and didn’t tell him. She had called him **friend** , and didn’t tell him._

  * _Perhaps she didn’t realise where he was, to tell him._



_Do **you** believe that?! _

  * _…no, I don’t._



It was ridiculous, talking to a mountain in her head. She snorted frost and frowned down at the orb.

_Mythal’s not really your mother, is she? Nor is Dirthamen your brother._

  * _Why do you ask?_



_It’s a straightforward enough question._

  * _Nothing about the Fade or spirits is simple, especially not that. Just take the orb and throw it up there._



_What will that achieve, though?_

  * _The People swore their lives to me. You once prayed to me. I saved you from Corypheus at Haven. I told you more about the man you love than he himself did. I could have pretended to **be** him, or locked you in a memory of Arlathan. I will not destroy your world. Do you have faith in me, or not?_



_It rarely hurts to listen. Trust is… another matter entirely. **How** did Mythal know the orb would break?_

  * _If you don’t believe what **I** say, work it out. After all, you have her… soul. _



 

Virla perched herself upon the altar, legs swinging, breathing frost, and tried to concentrate. The demon… mountain could read her thoughts. Solas had said the soul contained memories… and duties. And yes, she had agreed to take it, but she hadn’t thought she’d be alone so soon. He was _dead_. He was dead, and…

…if he was dead, then WHO WAS THE DRAGON sleeping in the old thaig hall with her?

  * _What dragon?_



The voice was sly, this time, as if the mountain was laughing at her, trembling slightly underneath her feet. She tried to fully wake and turn her head to see within the thaig, but _something_ stopped her.

  * _You need to take the orb, vhenan. You can’t escape without it. What you do with it is your choice._



The orb floated up from the grass, hovering in front of her chest. She shrank back, suspicious, and slid off the side of the altar to walk away. _Testing it._ It followed, barely flickering with golden light, moving smoothly so it always hung in front of her. She tried to run away from it but…

…ran into a wall. An invisible wall, at that: magic like the wards in Aratishan. _Ow! That wasn’t fair._

  * _I’m an immortal mage-king. You are twenty-three. **Of course** that wasn’t fair. Thank you, by the way._



She started to rub her shoulder where she’d crashed against the wall, then realised she could think away the pain. She couldn’t think away this wall. Her thought spat back, cold as ice: _Thank you… for what?_

  * _Take the orb and I will tell you._



_What will happen if I do?_

  * _A good question. Touching it will allow you to call it into existence from any place or time, World or Fade. It was a contingency plan. One he never knew existed. That would have defeated the point._



_A secret, from the God of Secrets?_

The mountain shook again with laughter. It didn’t seem malicious. Capricious, maybe. She asked a few more questions, only getting the same kind of evasive responses. It was frustrating, claustrophobic, maddening. The need to know what happened in the thaig gnawed at her. Soon, she’d need to drink. She ought to look for other mages in the Fade, help Hawke raise an army. Maybe she could talk to Dorian, or…

  * _Frustrated, vhenan? We were all young, once. As elvhen, you’ll learn patience. Eventually, we all do._



It sounded sad, now, more like Solas. She sighed, sitting down on the grass. _Why do you call me **vhenan**? _

  * _Because you put me back together, healed me. You carry what is left of those I loved._



_I put you back… together? But then… you were… you were Fen’sulevin. Shartan. Gods, you… And the Nightmare? You’re the Envy demon!_

Virla shook her head, cursing her own stupidity. He’d even told her this would happen, in the fresco runes. The Envy demon would take Falon’Din. The mountain chuckled, deep and low and terrifying.

  * _I enjoyed our nights, vhenan._



She ground her teeth. _That wasn’t you. That was NEVER you. That was in **my** mind, and that was Solas._

  * _Ah, you seek to rewrite the past. In fact, we have had many nights in many lifetimes. Look!_



Images flashed by, of elves, spirits, humans: women laughing up at S… Falon’Din; a pair who could have only been Andraste and Shartan; a younger Flemeth smiling at a poet; her and… Solas? Dancing, flirting, walking hand in hand. Far less sex than she’d expected. She thought she caught a glimpse of Valta. _Valta?_ Time was drifting, once again. She had to fight it, and the echoes in her own mind, scraps of Mythal’s soul, resonating to the scenes. She had been there. She had loved him. _It would be so easy to let him…_

“He is gone,” said Solas’ voice again. He sat down in front of her and took her hands. “I would love you.”

Something was stirring in her mind, a thought; some sweet glimmer of logic, reason, argument. Ignoring him, and all the tempting pictures, all the promises of love, the orb that glowed between them, she focused on reality. The truth was she was in a ruined thaig, a dragon breathing frost and dreaming. Half her mind was still awake. She was not possessed by him. She could wake up any time she chose.  

 

She woke up.

She woke up, and the dragon was **not there**.

As if to prove that she had lingered in the Fade too long, the rock wraiths cut a swathe directly through the wall. She let it shatter, blasting the wraiths out off the cliff to give her time. Solas **was not there**. _Cause and effect, cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward. The inherent right of all free-willed…_

She checked again, reaching out with magic for his aura. He was not invisible. There were no other living things within the cave: no bears or wolves or nugs; no crows or ravens. Just an aching emptiness, and giant rock wraiths crawling back in some strange kind of mourning for the dead.

She had fought the demon, and survived; yet she felt no joy. Without him, what was left for her?

_I can help Hawke and Varric._

 

She flew to Kirkwall, following the tracks of giant rock wraiths where they’d risen and stamped paradise across the earth. Hardly _paradise_ , for where they stood was blighted ground, speckled red with lyrium.

One rock wraith tramped across a farm, alone, blighting the cabbages. White with fury, she destroyed it.

But as she flew towards Kirkwall itself, she saw the villagers cry out with fear, and saw the impossibility of joining in the fight – it would draw the warriors away, rather than help them. She was the _enemy_ , not aid.

That hurt, and yet she would not shift back to an elf to talk with them, in case… and for fear the demon would come after her again. Her own pain must become a weapon, focusing her mind to action, assuming it were better than inaction. Could she talk to **other** mages in their dreams? That seemed _the_ most obvious, _the_ most necessary thing to do, to such an extent that she froze instinctively, wary of certainty.

_I must always doubt, from now. Certainty is dangerous, and trust cannot be blind._

She flew as close to the city as she dared, higher than an arrowshot. The walls of Kirkwall were surrounded – twenty, thirty rock wraiths there. The city was a magnet for all kinds of trouble. A great cheer rang out as one rock wraith crumbled into dust. _I wonder if they see this as a Sixth Blight, yet?_

Somewhere over the Vimmarks, north of Kirkwall, she saw the caravan, with Hawke and Dorian and Fenris at the head. Cassandra and Bull were there as well; Helsdim, Rector. Other riders followed close behind: Chargers; Wardens; Seekers; Tevinter mage-lords; wagons with the half-grown griffons. She wondered who controlled the passage through eluvians, or if, wherever Solas was, the network now lay dead as well.

Surely he could not have simply died, or simply anything. She wanted to believe he was too important, far too complex, to have truly gone forever. But… _I’m not sure this will even work,_ he’d said. Virla screamed with grief, and flew on over, past the caravan. The man she really needed now was Frederic of Serault.

  
 


	63. Dragon webbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon webbing adds high armour, willpower and magic, critical damage or fire resistance depending on the choice of slot. A dragon is a knight-pawn combination that can’t be promoted to a queen. Virla feels stuck on the edge of the board as well, with giant red lyrium monsters terrorising Thedas. Solas may be gone forever, but can the world they both loved still be saved? What choices should she make to help it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this chapter was appropriate for Hallowe'en. There will probably not be as long to wait for the final chapter... or will there? (Mwahaha!)

Her friends – Dorian and Bull; Cassandra, Hawke and Rector – would be safer without her, Virla insisted to herself, and wondered how many times Solas had used that argument to justify his absences. Now he had disappeared once more, gone while she was sleeping. _The demon thought that he was dead, but is he?_

Tonight, she’d look for him in dreams. _She_ would do the best she could to keep her friends updated.

Northwest over Wildervale she flew – far, fast and high – noting signs of spring growth in the forests, and looking for the great Minanter river she could follow westwards. Even from up here it would be visible, a thin blue line that ran across the world. _Why did my mark turn blue, and silver when I cast a barrier?_  

She made a detour to avoid Nevarra City, nestled in the mountains by the river. Rock wraiths swarmed around it, fought off bravely by detachments of the city’s archers – pennants of Pentaghast, Forsythia, Van Markham, others that she hadn’t learned – and Mortalitasi mages, under banners of their flower-crowned skull in gold and black. Nevarran coins were dragons; Nevarran nobles fought them. Soldiers in the fields looked up and shook their fists at her. _If not forward, deathward. Not a place to linger, or seek allies._

And, if she looked back, she could see Andraste being taken from Lord Hector of Nevarra’s stronghold, captured by Tevinter after Maferath betrayed her. Ten years later, when that came to light, the court of Maferath’s youngest son was slain here in revenge. Only Verald himself escaped. _Youngest son, like June._

She flew westward, forward, life-ward, fleeing from the dawn. The sun was overhead, now, sparkling on the river. It would turn north at Hunter Fell, so she remembered from her studies of the maps in Skyhold. The distances they’d covered had seemed huge, and yet, on azure wings, the world was small. No wonder the Evanuris felt like gods, if they could do this. _I wonder what Minrathous looks like from the air._

Her goal for now was Perendale. Frederic should still be there, studying the dragons that had recently re-settled in the south-east fringes of the Hunterhorns. He’d planned to spend the next three years there – one fact plucked from Josephine’s reports. She’d spoken with him, years ago, about Draconic, the phrases that he’d managed to decipher. And that had been before the Inquisition gave him access to archives far beyond Orlais, from Minrathous to Gwaren. Surely he might understand and help her, if he knew?

****

Nearly sunset by the time she saw the carving on the gates of Perendale, in all its inauspicious glory: _Lions slaying the Dragon_ , honouring the Valmont kings. What else had Genitivi said? _Not many people take the road west into Perendale for the sake of pleasure._ A town of silver miners, wyverns, goats... and dragons.

The Pentaghast estate was further north. She remembered letters from Cassandra when she’d stayed here with her cousins on her journeys to rebuild the Seekers. The haze that fogged her own memories of Aratishan – clear symptom of possession, she now realised – did not appear to dim events preceding that.

It was disturbing to think about how long she’d been possessed, and how she’d tell if she still was. The thunderous voice was silent; Fen’sulevin (Shartan, Felassan) was gone; but she’d got Mythal’s soul. Did that mean she _was_ Mythal: that she was a fragment of… whatever she had been? _And where is Envy?_

A sudden scent distracted her: pungent and immediate. She soared after the source of it and saw…

Another dragon, gold and crimson, battling a dark green wyvern. A female dragon, so her senses told her, middle-aged, at the peak of power. Circling high, she watched her sink her foot upon the wyvern’s neck, and bend to strike the killing blow. Directly behind the scene, recklessly close, crouched the man she sought: Frederic of Serault, his journal and his quill in hand, making observations. He was looking straight at her, and as she held his gaze, the other dragon looked up from her feast and opened wide gold eyes.

“Gift-from-the-sky,” screamed the dragon. “Gift-from-the-sky! The Mother said that you would come.”

It did not kneel to her, nor give any sign that it was pleased to see her, but nor did it attack.

“I am here as seen,” she said, her mind and teeth and tongue wrapping around the Draconic language as easily as before. “I give you respectful greeting. How do you name yourself?”

“I am Burning-hope,” replied the crimson female, shooting fire into the air. _Hissrassulin,_ thought Virla. _She called **me** Sullaisah. Not Razikale. Sul-lin: sky-blood, flame. Sul-laisah, sky-gift. Sul, syl sound the same. Laisah, laise, lasa, granted. Wait! The fresco. Did she mean **Sylaise**? What if I am not the Mother?_

“What else do they tell of me, Hissrassulin?”

Hissrassulin snarled, and even Frederic leaned back, before scribbling even more furiously. “Fen’Harel promised to bring about the destruction of the Blight that kills us. Time runs short and I burn bright. If you do not save us either, we will claim the daughters of you and Fen’Harel for our service.”

The words escaped from Virla’s jaws before she could control them: “I don’t have a daughter!”

The other dragon laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Smell yourself, Sullaisah, you are bearing.”

A roar of rage and exultation threatened to escape her jaws. _Dragon emotions are too **real**_ , thought Virla, suddenly comprehending why they were such solitary creatures. Hissrassulin eyed her with predatory fervour. A quiet female voice whispered in her mind: _When did Fen’Harel say that he would save them?_

She translated the words into Draconic: “When did Fen’Harel say that he would save you?”

Watching Hissrassulin throwing back her head and breathing flame, Virla was even less sure of her instinct, in the absence of another plan, to trust the voice’s calm direction. She suppressed a sigh of frustration. _How could he abandon me to **this**? I don’t even understand their body language._

 _You’re not on your own,_ the voice responded. _He gave you me. You don’t know that he won’t return._

Too many things she didn’t know. Hissrassulin rose into the air. “I will ask the elder ones,” she screamed, her razor teeth and bloody talons emblazoned by the last rays of the sun. “I will return!”

Virla added “avoiding other dragons” to her list, and looked across at Frederic. He had not moved.

Gliding down to where the wyvern’s corpse lay broken, she dipped a talon in its blood, laboriously etching letters on the rocks: _FREDERIC. I Am VIRLA LAVELLAN WHO WAS THE INQUISITOR. Do NOT FEAR ME…_

****

There was an cave nearby, that she could ward around with ice: a makeshift lair. She curled up in it, satisfied that she’d gained Frederic’s trust. As eager to assist as she’d expected, he was fascinated by the little that she told him. She’d promised him more tomorrow. As soon as her head encountered rock, she…

…was underground in a dwarven thaig. _Kal-Sharok is underneath,_ she thought, remembering: _No friend of the darkspawn_ in a letter on dark vellum; the destruction, centuries ago, of Cad’halash that housed the elves; and Caritas remarking (using information from another world) that they hated Orzammar and did not consider them as kin _._ But dwarves were not mages, they didn’t dream, so was she safe here?

Virla ran her hands through auburn hair, then pressed them to her belly. None of this was real. Yet: _A dragon said I’m pregnant. I am carrying his child, Fen’Harel’s daughter._ It seemed rash to linger here, or anywhere. She clothed her feet in leather boots and wrapped a fur cloak from the Fade around her.

She began to walk... and found the path sloped upwards. Somewhere, far ahead, a baby cried.

It kept on wailing, pain building as she ran towards it. A _baby_ , in the Fade? She emerged into another cave. Morrigan lay on the ground, exhausted, weeping. A bundle lay upon the ground beside her, and she could see that it was not a baby, but a demon of despair. Virla knelt down on the other side. _Be gentle._

“Mages shouldn’t give birth alone,” said Virla, tucking the fur cloak over and around the weeping woman. She eyed the demon, sulking as a swaddled, red-faced baby. “May I take him? See if I can calm him.”

“Mother!” cried Morrigan. “He won’t take milk! Neither will he sleep, nor cease from crying!”

Virla rocked the demon, willing it to hush while the illusion held. “Is anybody helping you?”

“Fen’Harel and the elvhen disappeared. Dagna informed Sera of red lyrium rock giants appearing across Thedas. Sera took the other elves to fight them. Tallis and Soren stayed with me. Tallis has my… oh!”

Morrigan stared in horror at the bundle.

“Does this baby look like yours?” asked Virla, pointing at the rows of grinning teeth and pushing back the wrappings from its head. It grew in size as Morrigan’s perspective shifted, flying out of Virla’s arms.

“Noooo…” groaned Morrigan, doubling up with sudden pain. “A demon. Help me kill it, Mother.”

After they had done so, Morrigan sat back heavily on the ground, and Virla crouched beside her.

“Look at me, Morrigan,” she said. “Who did you think I was?”

Morrigan frowned, then turned to look at her. “Virla! Why did I think that you were my mother?”

She didn’t want to lie. “Perhaps the demon addled your perceptions. Have you had your baby yet?”

“Yes. I would not choose to birth within a cave, but Tallis was most helpful. Soren hunted food for us.”

“Was it a boy? Is he healthy?”

“Yes, a boy. He appears to have the appropriate fullness in his lungs to make demands of me.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it also seems… that you are somniari. Why did the voices from the Well not tell me that?”

“Perhaps they did not know. I have not wandered into many dreams. I did not wish to intrude.”

“Yet I am grateful,” said Morrigan, inclining her head. “Not a pretty end, to fall prey to a demon. Indeed, we feared for you as well. When the elvhen left the wards decayed. Tallis searched the citadel for you.”

“I am glad I was here for you. Exhaustion… increases the risk,” said Virla, carefully. “From what I have seen, you may be safest in the forest. If you find where Sol… where Fen’Harel went, please let me know.”

“I will send a message to Skyhold,” agreed Morrigan, then grimaced. “I hear Silvius crying. Am I waking?”

Before Virla could suggest another means of communication, Morrigan was gone.

****

Two weeks passed, and there was still no sign of Solas. Virla communicated carefully with Frederic in Draconic and more tortuously in talon-written letters on the rocks, exchanging notes on dragon physiology and instincts. They negotiated what he would send on in coded reports to Skyhold, for them to send to Kirkwall or to Leliana at the Grand Cathedral. He didn’t pry, and she was glad: she could scream her grief while hunting goats for food. Twice she found and killed an isolated rock wraith, clawing and dismembering with icy rage. _You should not be here,_ she screamed. _You should not be here!_

Each night that she sought Solas, she found mages in the Fade, and none of them could see her as herself. Those who were devout bowed down in worship, whispering _Andraste._ Some Tevinter mages saw her as a dragon. An unfamiliar Dalish mage had made an offering to Blessed Sylaise, and she had shivered. How could the Keeper of the Hearth – _Sylaise, whose fire cannot be quenched –_ breathe frost and snow?

Even Vivienne, discovered in the chapel at Ghislain, had failed to recognise her, hastily excusing herself from prayers. A shame: either Andraste or her Herald would have liked to ask her about Exaltations.

From the mages’ dreams she guessed that rock wraiths were besieging every city, and that no-one had the least idea of why, or how to stop them spawning. Each morning when she woke she had to fight despair. It seemed impossible to know what best to do, except survive, kill wraiths, and try not to think overmuch on Solas, or on the orb and Falon’Din. She still believed she had been right there, but could not be certain.

_This world is too bleak to spurn compassion offered freely. I will never know that for certain, Cole, but thank you for saying it._

_Stop! Please, stop! You don’t need to hurt yourself!_

She missed Cole, yet she would not ask for him. Whichever city he was nearest, they would need him more. The voice from… whoever’s soul this was… would have to do. Its gentle comfort soothed her.

****

The evening of the day she killed the third rock wraith, on its fearful way to Perendale, her energy was at its lowest ebb. Frederic hadn’t known how long it would take before she would need to lay eggs: a month, perhaps? The previous night she’d stumbled on the dreams of a Tevinter mage whose face appeared familiar somehow. He’d feared she was the Old God Razikale, warding himself within a barrier so that she could not even approach to speak with him. It was only when she’d woken that she’d realised she had been within the Archon’s mind, dreaming of his younger self, studying defensive tactics.

Still, Morrigan and Hawke had seen her as herself. She hoped that meant she still was Virla _._ Though it was odd that Frederic had had no responses back from Skyhold. Had messages been intercepted? Had Soren kept an eye on her for Hawen or Deshanna, and if so, would they try to punish her, for loving Fen’Harel?

Laying her head down beside the ice walls of her den, she tried again to focus and reach Morrigan. Solas would have known how best to do this. Tevinter somniari texts relied on knowing rather precisely where the subject was. She’d not had the opportunity to find out where within the Tirashan the citadel lay hidden. Maybe tomorrow she should talk to Frederic: tell him she was going west to seek it out. Or should she fly back east to Kirkwall, try to contact Dorian and Hawke? Or go north to see Minrathous, or go south and find a place to make her lair near Skyhold, see if Caritas had answers? Virla yawned…

…and found herself inside a citadel. 

 

But this time, it was not Aratishan. She was staring at a pool of lyrium, in a domed, circular courtyard. Empty suits of armour sat around, dully sealed with geometric motifs: helmets welded to cuirasses.

She’d read about this place, in… “Shaper Valta?” she called, and watched, dumbfounded, as Valta rose up from the surface, the same pale skin and dark green eyes, but larger, more translucent. At least this one was no varterral, entangling her in bright blue lyrium. The fear was on the dwarven side, it seemed. 

The Shaper stepped out of the pool, and sank to her knees before Virla, her gaze shifting nervously around the room. Unsure of what she might be seeing, Virla spoke as gently as she could. “You are safe here.”

“I don’t know how I got here,” mumbled Valta, raising her hands in supplication. “The Titan told me that I must preserve the prisoner’s body. It found a place to hide us both. It did not know that you survived. It thought it was the only one. How could you have hidden from us? How could you have hurt it so?”

Virla swallowed hard, and thought about Mythal; and of enormous sunken idols made of stone and metal.

“What was could not be changed,” she said, remembering herself and Flemeth. _The Dalish prayed. Mythal never answered._ She forced her voice to remain steady: “This prisoner you mentioned: who is that?”

“I found him where the Titan told me. I did not know his name. An elf, like Inquisitor Lavellan, but taller, hairless, wearing gilded armour. A scroll was tucked within his belt, but when I unrolled it, it was blank.”

 _Blank?_ She could not breathe. “This scroll,” she managed, “was it tied with a velvet ribbon?”

“Yes,” said Valta, looking up and frowning. “How did you know that?”

“Scrolls are often tied in such a way,” said the ex-Inquisitor. She had to be sure. “What colour was it?”

Valta closed her eyes, as if recalling it to memory, and suddenly the pool behind was bright with images. Solas’ body falling through a fissure, chasm, rift, then caught within a web of magic. Placed with unseen gentleness upon a princely dwarven bed. Valta’s hands in iron gauntlets taking out the silver-ribboned scroll. As the dwarf opened her eyes, the pictures vanished – leaving only bitter, deadly lyrium.

“Silver. The Titan said that it meant peace,” whispered the Shaper.

Virla noted dully that she seemed entirely unaware of how her memories had been displayed, with a sharpness foreign to the Fade. It scarcely mattered, now. _How can there be peace, if he is dead?_

“As soon as I unrolled the scroll, I felt the Titan leave, and the Stone scream out in pain. I was no longer protected. The Sha-Brytol have turned on me. If you did not call me here to help me, I will die like Renn!”

Valta’s anguish was apparent, beating hard as hammer blows, shocking Virla into fear that it might attract attention. “You are safe here,” she repeated. “This is the Fade, where the elves and humans dream. The Titan favoured you with magic, with the gift of shaping stone. Might you be asleep and dreaming?”

“I… yes. I do remember being tired, when the Titan left me. I did not sleep, when it was here. That would explain the strangeness of this place. I have never dreamed before.”

Virla nodded, biting her lip. There was, it now occurred to her, another – and much darker – possibility. “Tell me where you are and I will help you if I can.”

“We are sealed within the Wellspring, hiding in the shrine the Titan opened. It destroyed the bridges. It could not let them find us. But there is nothing here for us! I did not need to eat, before, but now I…”

The dwarf’s emotions were getting out of control, and she had to calm her. “Listen to me, Shaper,” commanded Virla. “If you want to live, then close your eyes and picture where you are.”

Thankfully, Valta did not seem inclined to argue. The pool displayed a towering spire of rock, suspended from the cavernous ceiling far above, stripped bare of ferns and foliage. Blue lyrium branched downwards from the heights. A house was built onto the spire, close to where its tip hung over clouds, and in the house lay Solas and… then on the floor… _gods, was that Valta?_ It took her an heroic effort not to scream.

The Shaper was clearly dead, most likely from starvation.

 

So what was this, a _memory_ of her, preserved within the lyrium? Did she even realise she was dead?

“The Titan recognised you as its child,” she found her own voice saying, echoing around the room. “Children become independent from their parents. You could not remain attached to it for ever.”

 _Someone else_ was speaking through her, Virla realised, using dwarven dialect she’d never studied.

“That body that you left, dear child, is but a skin, discarded. You know how to use the gift. Rebuild it. Help my daughter of the air retrieve her lover’s body. In return, she will grant you what is yours by right.”

 

Valta’s eyes blinked open, and the whole world changed. They’d moved within the Fade to stand inside the ancient dwelling depicted in the pool, either side of Solas’ body. Valta looked as stunned as Virla felt, to be here. “Inquisitor Lavellan!” she cried, glancing at the still-barred door. “How did you get in here?”

“I… don’t remember,” said Virla, cautiously. “We are in the Fade. I was dreaming. Looking… for him.”

She pointed at Solas, and at the Shaper’s gesture, took hold of his outstretched hand. Cold as death: no life pulsed within him. A kiss pressed in defiance on his lips had no effect. _Ir abelas, vhenan._

She turned to Valta – avatar or revenant or spirit – saying, sadly: “Did the Titan tell you who he was?”

“Only that he was important. A Paragon, it said, who never broke his promises. It said I must protect him with my life. There is something strange about him, though.”

The mother of the unborn daughter of the Dread Wolf managed not to choke on tears. _Only **one** thing?_

“If he did not look precisely like an elf, I would have said he was a dwarf. His body was created by a Titan. When I listened to his chest, I felt the Stone say that it was _his_ mother also.”

“His name was Solas. He was to me as your Lieutenant Renn…”

Valta shook her head, and closed her eyes. Virla clutched at Solas’ dead right hand, suddenly too afraid to speak. On the wall behind the Shaper, letters were appearing in the stone – regular, incised, and deep:

T A K E  M Y  B O D Y  T O  T H E ...

  



	64. Checkmate: Everknit wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolf moves and captures as a rook and as a knight, its duplicated nature much like that of Fen’Harel. Everknit wool is looted from giants and red templars, and tints armour Solas’ favourite colour: green.

“Take my body to the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” read Virla silently. She waited until it was clear there were no other letters waiting to be carved. Then, aloud: “Can you see what’s written on the wall behind you?”

She’d not let go of Solas’ hand, and gripped it even tighter as Valta turned around to look.

“Yes! What does it mean?” asked Valta, putting a hand up to touch the carvings. “Whose body?”

The Shaper had faced away from the bed, and so she did not see the blast of crimson fire burning through the door, lashing against the barrier Virla cast to block it. What was it… a dragon, out there?

“Valta, we must get out of here!”

“Out of the Wellspring? The Titan sealed us all in. The Earthshaker weapons don’t work from the inside…”

She told herself Valta was bound to be confused, regardless of whether she was dead. _A skin, discarded._

“We’re in the _Fade_. The usual rules don’t matter here! The sky is green, the rocks all float…”

“Rocks can’t float,” said Valta, with quiet confidence. She was still inspecting the carvings. “They have to be attached to something, otherwise they’d fall. Where is it? This Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“On the surface, in the Frostback Mountains. South-west of Orzammar. North-west of Valammar,” she added, hastily reinforcing the barrier with ice. Flames continued to build. “Not that geography…”

****

Whatever Valta might have replied was lost, because Virla woke up as a dragon, in her den, alone, choking on the smoke and steam billowing from the red walls of her lair. The flames she’d seen were _here_.

There was no time to figure out what weird-ass craziness was going on in the Fade or in the Wellspring. Incandescent with rage, silver-blue scales glowing, she smashed through the ice and soared into the sky.

_Well, shit._

She’d never seen so many dragons. Crimson, gold and purple; turquoise, coral and indigo; emerald, scarlet, black; peacock and moss-green and brown. Hissrassulin was at the front, smoke from her mouth lingering against the blasted rock walls where her den had been. _I’ve had better wake-up calls._

An emerald dragon swooped up high to hang in front of her. “Where is he?” she demanded.

“Fen’Harel stole our dreams,” another dragon added, lightning flashing as she stamped her violet claw upon the ground. “Once, we lived among the People. Elves used our blood, our children’s blood, to fight their wars. In return they shaped our power, that we might share their glory.”

“We have slept beneath the sea,” explained a third, breathing a plume of frost up high into the air.

“He tricked us all,” complained a fourth. “The Dread Wolf told us when we woke we would be free.”

“Did he say he’d set you free?” retorted Virla. “What did he say, exactly?”

Her words hung in the air, ice-breath forming snowy crystals, and were met with silence. Were these dragons ancient? Or were they, like the Dalish, great-great grandchildren of a misplaced vengeance?

She glared at Hissrassulin, who had surely brought these dragons to her. “Which are the elders that you spoke of?” she began. Then, when Hissrassulin did not answer, shouted: “Which of you is the eldest?”

A huge black shadow blotted out the sun, and every dragon cowered.

It had been hiding up there, watching them, invisible; and now it plummeted. On jet black, blighted wings, with eyes like blood-red moons and breath like half-pissed midnight. Vivid scars of red lyrium ran across its face and belly. It looked and flew like Solas’ dragon form, but grotesquely swollen. Like Corypheus.

Bile rose in her mouth. _This isn’t good._

“I am the Eldest of the Sun,” it snarled, its huge wings rapidly covering the distance to them all. “Tevinter worshipped me as Lusacan! The elvhen worshipped me as Elgar’nan! I will take Fen’Harel’s bride!”

And as it swooped, enormous black clouds blocked the sun, and terror seized her heart.

Virla dove out of the way, but to no avail. Lusacan clamped his great ebony claw across her back, lifting her into the sky without apparent effort. “Only the final Pillar of the Earth remains!” he cried. “Come with me, kin, and fight it! Thus shall we regain your dreams from Fen’Harel! You shall worship me forever!”

Initially, she struggled in Lusacan’s grasp – she would _not_ think of him as Elgar’nan, the All-Father – as he rose higher. He smelled vile: of ichor and blight rot and felandaris. She quickly realised that his hold on her could not be broken, and tried to calm herself. For his part, he seemed hardly aware that he was holding her, black purpose driving him… westwards. _Why go west?_

“Fen’Harel’s citadel is west,” he screamed. She stiffened, recognising that he read her thoughts.

_Just like a demon. Is that how, in Elvhenan…_

She stopped her thoughts and tried to think of something else, not wishing to disclose the rest. It had been morning when she’d been woken, dawn over Perendale, yet everywhere around was black as night.

They were skirting the southern reaches of the Hunterhorns. Lusacan’s claw pressed into the ridge of her spine, locking her wings tight against her flanks. Not even her mind was free. Suddenly, she felt renewed admiration for Fen’Harel. For Solas, who, for all his faults, had dared to fight against this reign of terror.

Down below, more rock wraiths rose up from the rocks, glowing crimson. She wondered whose side they were on. One was furiously stamping a genlock’s face into the ground, and into dust. _Not theirs, it seems._

****

It was evening by the time they found Aratishan, or would have been, had Elgar’nan not killed the sun. No sign of any stragglers in the storm-tossed forest; no trace of… _Think of something else._

Lusacan appeared to be looking for something. Not finding it, he dumped her unceremoniously in the garden and wheeled to land in front of her. His tail lashed angrily against the trees around the arbour. Rain crashed down, making muddy pools around their feet; and thunder rumbled somewhere to the east.

“Where is the eluvian?” he hissed, his breath hot and foul in her face. “The eluvian to the Crossroads!”

“I don’t know,” she replied, in perfect truth. It was gone from the balcony. “It must have been moved.”

And then it hit her: _Take my body to the Temple of Sacred Ashes._ Was this what it meant? Was this where she might find lyrium, to… _anyway, I’d better say it. Not as if I have a better plan._

“Might Fen’Harel have moved it to the Frostback Mountains?” she volunteered. “He had a castle there.”

Lusacan glared at her. “If you are lying, fool, your life is forfeit. You will not escape my wrath!”

He hauled her up and soared over the forest; her scales burning, mind maddened from the lyrium welts pressed close against her. The other dragons followed: a phalanx of fire against the darkness of the sky. No stars were visible. Yet, from underneath his belly, once, she looked back and saw Hissrassulin, her face lit by a flash of lightning. She glared at Lusacan, then closed one eye to wink at Virla. _Did I imagine that?_

They flew back over the Tirashan, and over the stench of the Nahashin Marshes, emerging into a wild and fearful Orlesian night. Lights within cities (Val Foret, Verchiel?) were dimmed: citizens were barricaded in their homes. Soldiers fought with rock wraiths; mages with demons. In one unlucky village she saw a terror abomination forming from a girl. No time to see what havoc it would wreak, or hear cries in the lack-of-moonlight. Lusacan, corrupted Night, continued flying east, towards the unseen dawning sun.

As they neared the Frostbacks, flying over Dirthavaren, Virla looked down again and saw, within the darkened glades, bright bursts of green. Focusing on their location, she realised they came from the eyes of stone wolf guardians – sliding aside to allow an army to march out. A mismatched army: golems and elves, humans and dwarves, horned Qunari, werewolves, mabari and even a few more rock wraiths, their bodies wired with green, not red. They were trooping east as well. _Think of something else._

_Even the mountains had a heart, once._

On the horizon, lightning lit the snow upon the Frostbacks. The massive spine between Ferelden and Orlais that had become her home: _Tarasyl’an Te’las, the place where the sky was held back._

“Over there!” she called, diverting Lusacan from Skyhold. They swooped down perilously fast towards the rocky ruins of the Temple. Virla sensed the mighty rush of power dreaming just beneath the surface. She’d felt it before, in Haven and in that final, painful battle with Corypheus, but now she could practically _see_ it.

It was moving: shooting skywards, as if something was barrelling upwards through the mountain.

She traced the trajectory up and up, to where it… that was the mosaic that…

“An entrance lies buried under that mosaic,” she called up to her captor. “We need to move it!”

He flung her down towards it, and she landed gracelessly, slithering across the rocks and lava. She’d barely scrambled to her feet before he’d grasped the metal edge within his jaw, and pulled.

 _This was a terrible idea,_ she’d time to think. And then everything happened at once.

 

The mountain exploded. A colossal plume of scalding lava erupted high into the sky. There was no time to escape it – Virla encased herself in ice as she became a part of it, one more screaming rock within the magma. _Falon’Din’enaste,_ she prayed, in desperation. _Dirthamen’enaste, Mythal’enaste, Fen’Harel’enaste._

Eventually time stopped, or at least she was no longer rising, but falling, falling. _I’ll be buried in the Stone,_ she panicked. _I will become part of the mountain, undying, like an elven golem. Solas, Solas, help!_

She couldn’t bear to watch, and closed her eyes, and saw…

The lyrium within the lava had snaked towards out towards her, trails of pure white light connection, a web that pulled her out, or pulled them in, she wasn’t sure, but down below her span a massive glittering force-field sphere, within the lava, smooth and strong and – Light pulled her up and through it – _safe._ Rocks and fire fell around it, but the sphere was rising. She opened her eyes within the Fade, and…

…found herself. Not inside a citadel this time. Outside the City.

 

It was shrouded in mist, but who was that in front of it? Virla hurried towards the immense black gates, her wrapped feet scraping on cobblestones that shimmered silver as she ran. _I need to get into the city._

Three dwarves, this time: two females that she recognised, and one male she did not. Beside them was a simple covered wagon. They seemed to be inspecting the gates, looking for a mechanism to open them.

Valta was the first to turn around. “Inquisitor Lavellan! I hoped you might join us. Can you open these?” 

Dagna looked up from where she had been trying to peer underneath the gates, eyes widening in shock. “Inquisitor! I thought Valta was crazy, when she woke and said _the Fade_ , but… you’re here! We’re here!”

“Have to put the moon back in the sky,” she heard herself saying _._ Then she took control. “Is Valta… how?”

“Enchantment!” said the third dwarf, grinning widely.

“No, Sandal,” said Valta, a faint flush of light across her cheeks. “It was my faith that saved me.”

Virla shook her head. _No time for this._ “The mountain is exploding. I was caught within the lava, but so was the envy demon possessing Lusacan.” Dagna looked blank, so she added, hastily: “L… Lusacan, the Dragon of Night, a Tevinter Old God like Dumat or Urthemiel? Urthemiel, the dragon of the Fifth Blight?”

“Oh, _that_ Lusacan,” said Dagna. “This one’s Sandal. The one with the wonky mind I mentioned.”

“Enchantment!” added Sandal, for a second time. It stirred a flicker of memory. Kirkwall. The _Vir Dirthara._

Virla felt her palms itching, and on instinct, asked: “Do you craft runes, Sandal?” He nodded, and before he could say _enchantment_ again, she held out her hands to him. All three dwarves watched the blue line on her left palm glow silver and fade back to blue. “Can you do anything with this?”

Gently, he folded her hands together, then brought them apart. From the right, a silver tree was springing. From the left, Sandal took a single sapphire rune. “No salamanders!” he said, excitedly, turning to Valta.

“So pretty,” sighed Dagna. “The mountain’s got a key as well. The lava’s torn the Breach again.”

_Fenedhis! What if they’re all dead? What if…_

Sandal placed the rune directly over Valta’s heart. “Aren’t you going to use the key?” she asked.

Virla looked down in surprise. An ordinary metal key lay on her hand, a miniature version of the key that Varric had given her, the key that controlled the harbour chains between the lighthouse and the Twins…

 

She woke and realised several things in quick succession. She was real: a scarred and breathing dragon in a block of melting ice, inside a force-field spinning miles up in the sky, and rising. The Breach was open for the third time, and this time she was _in_ the orb: a shot thrown by the Stone itself, in lieu of an Inquisitor.

The magic in her claw thrummed with Mythal’s power. _I have to put the moon back in the sky._

Far below, a mighty army fighting Solas’ body. All that she could do was build a worthy mausoleum.

The force-field bubble shot through the Breach, carried in a heaving tide of lava. It would smother the Black City in the Fade, burying it and her within it. _Barindur_. Virla closed her eyes. _Blood lotus time again._

 

She was back outside the City, on her own. With all the willpower she possessed – or that possessed her – she believed a Silver City real – and unlocked its seven gates in turn. With each gate, more of the People flocked around her, saved and singing: reinforcing her creation and her tribute. It could not be Arlathan restored, but it would have the spires of crystals, silver trees and sparkling rivers; and indigo waterfalls and rust-red jungles, like the Grand Sonallium. And as many of his frescoes as she could remember.

Opening her dragon eyes, she saw the spirits, freed and flying through the open apertures, unwarded. Millions upon millions of them, shaping lava as it crashed, cascaded, black to grey to silver. They urged her to breathe ice that they might make the rivers, and promised she would see them in her dreams as stars.

The ones who watched the Earth told of a mighty battle: of a great blindfolded Queen arising, mountain-high, a glowing sapphire rune upon her chest; of a plucky blonde-haired elf who shot the dragon Lusacan straight through the eye; of dragons tearing at his wings, and wyverns at his legs; golems throwing rocks…

She led a solemn procession to his shrine, to set her broken heart in pride of place. They’d honour what he once had been. _Hahren, na melana sahlin. Emma, ir abelas… vir dirthera… vir lath sa’vunin_.

And as they continued the singing, no more lava poured in through the Breach, but only light.

The Light descended to His shrine, to form Him: radiant, eternal, loved. And silent.

She would have stayed here, weeping for eternity, but she was **real** , and had to dream of it outside.

And so she flew up to the Breach, and through it, and did not look back to see him fade.

A simple gesture closed the Breach, a claw-swipe that meant everything: the new-built moon blazed bright, the ash melted away, the rock wraiths crumbled far below, and everything turned green. She knew it meant the Blight was gone. It meant the Blight was gone!

And suddenly she fell.

 

No air up here, or not enough to breathe or fly. Plummeting, plunging, from the bright real moon, _his_ moon, she felt the darkness drowning her. Not as thin as samite, but a thick black cloud of…

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then, there was something.

A web of magic, catching her.

It laid her somewhere warm and safe below the earth, where she could clutch her eggs. Someone nearby was trundling a wagon down a tunnel. She rested her head against the ground, exhausted…

…and she was in the Silver City, at his shrine. But he had gone, and in his place there stood a hooded statue, stone, one arm outstretched – _Falon’Din, the Guide,_ she realised, with a shock – and pointing at…

…and pointing at…

…and pointing at a whole eluvian, its frame adorned with sixty frost runes. And at the foot, scratched into it, above the mound of scorched and shredded leather wrappings, some graffiti:

**Inky HAS friends, elfy. Still needs YOU.**

 

A spirit of Compassion brought her in the Fade to somewhere she could watch as Solas’ spirit ran through the eluvian at Skyhold, leapt up on to the courtyard roof and glided over moonlit mountaintops like dawn. Elf and wolf and lark he was, and, singing, leapt into his body as it lay upon the wagon.

Valta was waiting in the shade, watching over both of them. “ _Atrast vala, salroka_ ,” she said quietly, then sealed him with the sapphire rune. Before he could wake, she had departed, back into the Stone.

And before Virla could turn to thank Compassion, he had gone. Had she been imagining he’d worn a hat?

 

Virlath Al’var Lavellan knew that she was far too tired to wake – she’d built a city, after all – but she could feel the magic healing her, rippling along her scales like echoes of a long-lost song.

It was irresistible, as he had always been, to her. Her _hahren,_ friend, her lord, her lover.

She opened a lazy silver eye to feast on him. “Solas?”

He stopped the magic, hands still resting gently on her azure foreleg. “ _Vhenan,_ we cured the Blight.”

Everything was beautiful. The way he said it in Draconic; how he knew that she was smiling; how warmly he returned her smile. She was not surprised to see the dawn was rising just behind his head.

They’d have at least one more day together.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 November: All Saints' Day, Día de los Inocentes / 1 Umbralis: Satinalia
> 
> Thank you for reading to the end of this story! I am looking forward to writing some epilogues or future parts for these characters. We'd like more fluff, less angst, you said. I will see what I can do. :)
> 
> Edit (12 November 2016): Epilogue now available at [Such a pilgrimage were sweet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8531269/chapters/19556866).


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